Darkest Before Dawn
by Nmissi
Summary: If I ran the Buffyverse...Season five spoilers possible.
1. DBD prologue

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn

AUTHOR: Nmissi

PART: 1/?

DISCLAIMER:I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did, 

what makes you think I'd share him with you?

DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's 

going.

RATING: PG13 for a teensy bit of language and some torture scenes. 

SPOILERS:Crush, IWMTLY, The Body…Pretty much everything.

***WARNING:Semi-graphic description of torture***

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com

SUMMARY:The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

""Oh, no no… I'm not making any more girls." 

"Sure you are… here's your specs... You're gonna make her real good for me."

"package for Buffy Summers," mused Giles, as he walked into the training room.

She looked up from the medicine ball, pushing sweaty strands of blonde hair back behind her ears. She strode over to her Watcher. 

"For me? Cool.Who's it from?"

"Hard to say. There's no return address." He studied the small box in brown paper, turning it over in his hands. "Postmarked locally, however." He looked up in time to catch the disappointment as it crossed Buffy's face."I'm sorry," he said softly. 

"S'okay, Giles." She gave him a reassuring smile. "I'm not really expecting Riley to send me anything. Least, not at this late date. My birthday was a full three weeks ago. Nope- LATE birthday presents are as bad as NO birthday presents. Let's see who's not getting a thank- you note." She took the box from him, and looked at it for the first time. "Hmm. Girly- writing, loopy. And who still uses Pink Ink?" She tore it open.

Giles watched her from over the tops of his glasses. Two weeks, and still she hadn't cracked. He kept waiting, watching for it. Her mother was gone- her sister in danger. And still, she plugged on valiantly. Sooner or later, though, something would give way. "Grief works its way in all of us," he thought sadly. 

It was a gold box, the size for jewelry. It had been wrapped with a red ribbon, but the Brown paper mailing wrap had crushed the bow flat. Carefully Buffy peeled up the Bow, and tossed it into the trashcan. Then she tore the ribbon, and opened the box. Moving back the white cotton batting, she gasped. 

"I think this is bad."

He felt the sting of her slap against his cheekbone, as he came to again.

"There, now- wakey-wakey, Rise and shine, Blondie!Thought you were supposed to be tougher than this."

She gave him a bright smile, and the hand that had slapped him gave a gentle caress to the other side of his face. Unfortunately she was caressing an open gash, so it hurt like hell. She reached her fingers into the wound, making him gasp in pain. The gasp hurt the lungs she'd so recently punctured, and he choked, blood spraying out between his lips. She stepped back, but not in time to avoid the splatter.

Her voice was deceptively sweet, concerned as she spoke to him.

"Now just look what you've done to my dress." She looked up at him, and the angelic visage contorted with rage. "This was a VERSACE!" 

"Yeah, well, It makes your ass look big." He responded thickly, between split lips..

She hit him in the face, and the world went dark once more. 

"Buffy, tell me you're NOT thinking about going to rescue your evil stalker-guy from Glory." 

Xander looked at her with astonishment. He'd been listening to her for the last few minutes, but it was just now sinking in, what she was telling him. Glory had Spike. And Buffy was actually thinking about trying to free him. 

"Xander, will you hear me out?" She looked from him, over to the rest of the gang. They were gathered together, around the big research table at the magic box. The usual books and papers were absent fromits surface, however. In the middle of it sat the mysterious box, with its awful contents. 

"Buffy, how do you even know they're his?" Willow was all concern, her brow wrinkling. "I mean, couldn't they be, I don't know"

"Will, they're not exactly Lee Press-Ons. And they're bloody. They were ripped out, one by one. Now, I'm really REALLY not fond of Spike. But I'm even less fond of Glory." She flipped her hair, turning towards the counter to face Giles. "Besides. He knows about Dawn. What if he spills?"

"Buff, have you considered he may have 'Spilled' already? I mean, if she's pulling out his fingernails, he might want to cut a deal. And he's probably not really happy with you right now." 

The group took a second to consider Xander's point, and Willow looked down at her lap uncomfortably. 

"Xan's right, Buff- The De-invite probably put him in a NASTY mood."

"Guys, Spike THINKS he's in love with me." She looked pointedly at them as she continued. "He's NOT- But he thinks he is. I don't think he thinks he can endear himself to me by selling out my little sister. And anyway- if he'd already told her she wouldn't be sending me little presents in the mail, trying to get my goat."

"Goat? What goat?" that was Anya, being shushed by Xander. 

"She'd be over here, looking for Dawn, trying to open whatever the hell Lock she fits into."

The object of these discourses herself sat on the counter, observing the discussion but not entering into it. She hadn't been herself since her mother died. A lot of the time, it was as if she weren't really there at all- She rarely spoke, she hardly ate, she had no opinions and cared about nothing. Buffy was talking about Grief counseling and therapists, but really- there just weren't counselors to deal with everything that was happening in Dawn's life. So for the time being, the focus was on Glory, on keeping Dawn safe- Her sanity they'd all deal with later, when they had ample time. 

"Buffy, I cannot approve of this. Glory is too strong, you can't really hope to defeat her…"

"Giles, I can't risk that she'll get the truth out of Spike."

Her watcher took off his glasses, rubbing them with a handkerchief.

"Then I don't think a rescue mission is in order. I think you should neutralize the danger yourself."

There was confusion amongst the group. What was Giles getting at? Only Buffy understood. With a heavy heart, she nodded. "I see your point. I don't know though, Giles. I don't know if I can do that."

Giles put a finger under her chin, and lifted her face up. 

"You must remember, Buffy- He's not Human. He's chipped, yes- But he has no soul, no understanding of right and wrong. He's extremely dangerous, especially now, in light of his obsession. If the need to- Well, if it comes, you mustn't hesitate."

All her fault. Bloody bitch. Made me love her, made me want to be "Good" for her. Made me willing to die for her. For her baby sister, for chrissakes. And she'll never miss me, never mourn me, never give a bloody damn what I did for her…

"AAARRRGGGGGGHH!!!!" Screams pulled him from his inner dialogue. She was at it again, that Glory chippy. Dimly he was aware of her fingers, stroking his hair, soothing him, as her other hand cut him again, somewhere. It was hard to be precise about the location, since everything hurt. His torso was a mass of welts, weals, and wounds, which she kept reopening with a surgeon's precision. 

"Sssh, it's okay, pretty boy. See? All done now. And just look at the pretty colors! All that blood! And who'da thunkit? Your insides don't look that different from a human's." She cocked her head to one side, studying the large opening in his chest. "'Course, it doesn't beat anymore." She reached down, and he could see her hand as it went INTO his chest. "But it still feels all gooshy." There was that screaming again, he thought- where was it coming from? She pulled her hand back out, and wiped the blood across his lips. "Hungry, baby?"

She climbed onto the bed, on top of him, straddling his hips, and ground her hips against him in a painful parody of the act of love. She'd broken his pelvis yesterday, with the troll hammer. 

"S'okay, honey. I know how hard all this is for you. Sssh. Don't cry. Don't cry." Her voice hardened. "OKAY! Enough with the blubbering, now!" She reached beneath her, and clawed open the flesh above his groin. "You won't be much use to the Buffybim, now, if I do that just a leetle bit lower..." She leaned over him, her lips warm against his cold ear. He'd lost so much blood…"Where …Is… My….Key?"

From the depths of near-unconcsiousness, Spike rearedhis head, and wound up his mouth. 

"Fuck. You."

She brought her head down onto his forehead. Hard, but not quite hard enough to knock him back out. 

"WHY! Why won't you tell me? I know you know. The Slayer has you guarding her back at every turn- she obviously trusts you. Is chivalry COMPLETELY dead? I mean, time was, a Damsel in Distress had her PICK of white knights just Bendin' over Backwards to help a lady out." She was raking her nails into his wounds again, this time the deep cuts on his cheekbones, where she'd gone looking yesterday to see if they were "real"."Honestly. What's become of the menfolk in this reality?" She rested her head against his, their foreheads touching. She was sweating again, and the salt was burning him.He opened his eyes , meeting hers. She gave him a lascivious smile.

"I wonder"-

Unexpectedly she brought her lips to his, opening her mouth in a forceful kiss. At the same time, he was aware of a strange sensation- it was terribly bright, like sunlight all around him. And he felt lightheaded, dizzy. There was the disturbing feeling of something crawling inside his skull, rooting about, searching…

She pulled back, ending the kiss, and the lightness was gone. He was disoriented, nauseated. 

"What the hell?" She was looking at her fingers,and then he saw it.

There, stuck to her hand. It was small, a fragment of metal and plastic. And it still had bits of his grey matter caked to its surface.

"You're just full of surprises, Blondie. What is it, a Bug?"

Her only answer was his mirthless, hopeless laughter.

"Buffy, I hope you know what you're doing."

This was Giles, the voice of reason. And she was ignoring him with both ears. 

"I'm going to find her. And I'll take care of Spike before he can tell her."

"What'll you do if you're too late, and she already"-

She hung her head, "I dunno Giles. I really have no clue."

With that, she put her equipment bag into the back of Giles' car, and put out her hand. He obligingly dropped the keys into it. 

"Do be careful, then." He gave her his best reassuring smile, and she returned it. Then she hugged him, and climbed into the driver's seat.

"Don't be a worrywart, Giles. I'm a big girl now."

As she drove off, he allowed himself to reflect on that for a moment. Yes, she was the "Adult" now, the grownup in the family. Losing Joyce was aging Buffy in all sorts of unpleasant ways. 

Finding Glory hadn't been all that difficult. 

"For a God, she sure hires stupid help," Buffy mused. The minions had been following her around town for weeks, and rather badly at that. Buffy just located one, and did a rather better job of Stealthy than he did- following him back to his mistress. 

A highrise luxury apartment on the nicer side of Sunnydale. It figured Glory would be high maintenance. Buffy knew the neighborhood; Dawn had babysat for a nice couple here last summer. A doctor and his lawyer wife. Very expensive real estate. Carefully, she followed CrustyMinion into the building, and watched him get into the elevator. Then she watched the little lights above, to see what floors it stopped on. It stopped only once, on four. She raced up the fire stairs. 

Once on the fourth floor, she knew a moment's fear- there were so many doors, how would she know the right one? Thinking about the layout, the front of the building, she went with a hunch. Glory was a "god", right? So she'd feel entitled to the very best. She headed for the penthouse apartment, facing the street. It should be the one with the fabulous window she'd noticed from out front. 

She took a deep breath. She would have to break it down. If she was mistaken, she'd be spending the night down in lockup. 

But Luck, who'd had some serious "Let's fuck buffy over" going on this month, decided at that moment to be kind. The door opened, and a minion backed out, bowing and scraping. 

" Yes, your most fragrantly pleasing . I shall take him your message at once." 

Buffy could hear the Bitch inside, ranting about something or other. The minion stepped back, and began walking down the hall. Buffy caught the edge of the door just before it could swing shut, and entered the apartment. 

The living room was tasteful, dark woods and queen anne furnishings. Angel-type stuff, she reflected. She could hear Glory's voice in the bedroom, and she stopped to take off her shoes, so as to better tread silently across the hardwood. 

"There, now, baby. C'mon, I didn't mean to play so rough."

Glory's voice was sultry, full of promise.

"Ah, yes, that's it. I need you, baby."

Shewas on the bed in the center of the room, just visible through the door. She was dressed in a red silk dress, and Buffy could make out a fine Prada sandal hanging off one side of the mattress. She began to feel she'd made a mistake. Maybe Glory worked out of an office someplace, and she'd happened in on a little off-hours hanky panky at home. She'd studied ancient history in high school. She knew Gods led INTERESTING lovelives. 

"Bugger Off." came the less –than-gentlemanly reply.

"Sweetums. All I want is what's mine. Can't you see that?" Buffy heard Spike hissing as Glory appeared to do something with his nether regions. "And I need your help. I'm just a Poor, Little," She began punching his head in time with her words. "Helpless female without a friend in the world." 

She sagged against him, spent. " I've got nobody else but you."

She changed her tone again, from little-girl lost back to siren. "Whatever that BuffyBimbo does for you- I can do it better. All I want is one teensy little thing. My key. You can tell me where she put it, Spikey. You know you can."

She was undulating on top of him now, writhing like a bitch in heat. 

"Eww. …Needy much?" thought Buffy. 

The bed creaked, the chains on Spike rattled, as she bounced off the mattress and walked out of Buffy's view. The Slayer took that opportunity to slip in behind the door. Glory stepped away from a half-open closet and Buffy stepped into it beyond her line of sight. 

Glory was back on the bed, apparently with whatever she'd taken from the closet.

" Thought you might be getting thirsty by now." She looked down at her watch. "Hmm. Tick tock- Yeah, we've been at this almost twenty hours now." She gave him an appreciative grin. 

"DAMN, I love a man with STAMINA!"

"Yeah, I can go twenty more, ya stupid Bint." 

His voice was harsh, strangled- short of breath, it sounded. Buffy watched as Glory feigned concern.

"Here you are, lover." She poured something into his mouth, and Buffy heard the sizzle as well as the scream.Holy water. She was forcing him to drink Holy Water. 

"See, baby? Glory takes care of her man! Now you take care of me and I'll make it all better. WHERE IS MY KEY?"

With a burnt, hollow voice, Spike answered her.

"Bite me."

Glory's scream of rage rattled the mirrors in on the walls. 

"WHAT IS IT WITH YOU? WHY? Why won't you help me?"

"Eh, maybe its your charming disposition? Nah. I've helped Buffy and she's a bigger Bitch than you are. I guess its your halitosis. I mean, really, Goddess- A few altoids every once in a while"-

She upended the holy water bottle over his chest, as he shrieked. 

"TELL ME WHERE IT IS."

His strangled voice spoke up softly. " I would rather die."

Glory sighed dramatically. "If that's the way you want it." She reached her hands back down to his chest, and the screaming started again.

"I've always wondered if that bit about Removing the heart and cutting off the head would work."

Buffy watched in horror as Glory put her hands INSIDE Spike's chest, and pulled. The screaming finally stopped.

Abruptly the living room door slammed shut.Glory let go, and looked annoyed.

"Hey! Keep it down, some of us are trying to WORK in here?"

Dawn walked into the bedroom. 

"I think your work here is through."

"What is she doing here?,"thought Buffy.

"Oh, Goody! Two for the price of one! I love a sale." Glory squirmed upon the bed, running her hands along Spike's prone form. He twisted, in unconscious agony, and her hands came away bloody. She looked at them, the corners of her mouth twisted up into a grimace. "Eww." She climbed off him, and stood up, wiping her hands on Spike's duster. It was lying on a chair next to the bed.

"Step right up, little sister. You're gonna help me find my key." She tossed her head over her shoulder, indicating Spike chained up behind her. "Big Sister's boyfriend was a Leetle bit uncommunicative. But then, men always are, aren't they? The whole Mars- Venus thing. Communication issues aside, though, honey- For your sake, I really wish he had talked." 

She began advancing on Dawn 

"Cos now, I'm gonna have to get the info out of you."

She gave a disappointed pout.

"And you humans are so damnedfragile!"

Glory seized Dawn by the hair roughly, pulling her over by the footboard. 

Quick as a flash, Dawn backhanded Glory, actually breaking free long enough to step back several steps, across the room- just out of the reach of the closet in which Buffy hid. She put her hand into her jacket pocket-

" What's she doing? I can't see from here," thought Buffy.

Glory laughed, a rich, throaty sound that sent chills down the Slayer's spine. How strange that such a lovely sound could hold such menace. 

"Oh, you have GOT to be kidding! What're you gonna do with that? Hold up a toy store? C'mon babe- I'm a GOD! You actually think you can hurt me with a GUN?"

Dawn's voice is so clear, strong- like it hasn't been since before Mom died, thought Buffy to herself. And where the HELL did she get a Gun? She stepped out of the closet. 

"Dawn, what are you doing? Where did you get that?" Buffy tried to go to her, but suddenly Dawn swung the gun around on HER. 

"ExCUSE me! Interrupting, here!" Glory glared at Buffy, then turned her gaze back to Dawn. "Go on, honey- the whole "threatening" thing. You're doing REAL nice! Points for effort." She gave Dawn a "thumbs up" and a smarmy grin.

Dawn backed up, away from them both, gun still out, and at the ready. "It's okay, Buffy. I know what I'm doing." To Glory she said, "So, You don't think I can hurt you with this gun?"

" Well, Duh! Of course not, silly! I'm freaking IMMORTAL! But really though- It's cute. Makes me feel like I'm on TV or something! And don't you look just DARLING as a little thug? But Dawnie- You can't hurt me with a gun."

"No. But I can destroy something you want."

Realisation entered the Buffybrain- the slayer knew what Dawn had thought of. 

"NO! Oh, God, Dawn, no, Please"-

"It's going to be all right, Buffy, Really, I promise. I know what I'm doing."

"What're you getting at, little girl?" Glory was suspicious.

"The monks. They wanted to make sure you'd never get the key. They sent it to my sister to protect it, to keep it safe from you. Did you ever wonder how they got her to agree to it? I mean, she's the Vampire Slayer. She's already got a Destiny. Her hands'rekinda full. Not like she needed more stuff to do, y'know? So they made it so she HAD to protect it…Would want to. With her life. They made it something she loved more than herself." She smiled then, and watched as comprehension came over Glory like a thunderhead. 

" They made it into me."

With that, Dawn put the pistol into her mouth and blew the back off of her head, as Glory and Buffy both screamed.

The body went limp on the floor. Blood was everywhere. Buffy threw herself onto Dawn, feeling frantically for a pulse. 

"Dawn? DAWN? Oh, God, Please-" She wept distractedly, pulling her sister's body close to her. There was blood, so much blood- She raised her head, and caught sight of the hand draped down over the side of the bed. More blood- at the ends of all five fingers, nothing but blood. The room was swimming in its copper scent.

She looked back down. Somewhere in the room, Glory was screaming, and trashing- But all Buffy could see was her sweet baby sister, fourteen years old, her face a mess of blood and hair. Not the KEY, not some powerful pawn in yet ANOTHER battle between good and evil- only her baby sister, the last family she had left. And for a few moments, the room lost reality for her, giving way to memories.

"Buffy, Bwaid my hair."

"Why can't I play too?!"

"You gonna finish that?"

"I didn't take your stupid sweater!"

"Big square building filled with boredom and despair."

"-doesn't treat me like an Alien"

She looked back up. Spike. Spike was on the bed, all cut up and maybe dying. For Dawn. God, that was a laugh. A sick, cynical Joke. She'd come here to kill Spike to protect Dawn- And Spike had pretty much let the BitchGod kill him, rather than betray her. And Penultimate Cosmic Irony- Dawn had given up her secret all by herself. And in the end, neither Spike nor Buffy had been able to protect her. 

Maybe he really did care after all. 

Maybe it really was love. 

Suddenly, it became very important to her that Spike survived. She pulled herself up out of the floor, and went back to the bed.

God, he was a mess. Fortunately he was still unconscious. Buffy found herself tearing up the bedsheet to make bandages. She WOULD save him, she would get him out of here. This time, at least, This Person Who Loved Buffy would not Die. 

"when did Spike become a Person to me?" She wondered.

In the next room, she could still hear Glory- the sounds of glass breaking, furniture overturning, and Really Impressive Cursing.

"Ignore it." Said the buffybrain, on autopilot, so, She did. Focus. Focus. Close up the gapinghole over the heart. Wrap it up tight, so it'll heal together. 

Behind her, she heard Glory enter the room, and so she turned to face her.

Glory, demigod from the Bitch dimension, stood in the doorway crying. 

"All I wanted was my key, dammit! I just wantedto get the FUCK out of here!" 

She advanced on Buffy. 

"Do you think I LIKE this PLANE? You and your SMELLY, SWEATY, DRIPPY mortal coil?" She reached for Buffy, who instinctively tried to shield Spike from the impending blow. 

Then something Very Odd happened. The delicate-looking arm, which had been poised to strike her, shifted blurrily into something hairier, more muscular. Buffy followed it up to the neck, where she was only vaguely surprised to see Ben's face. 

"Okay. I know what this is. I'm in shock." The autopilot supplied this information helpfully. Taking that information under advisement, she then was not shocked to see that Ben was also wearing Glory's blood splattered silk dress. 

"Shit," said the nice man in the bloody dress. "Buffy? Buffy, c'mon, snap out of it." He slapped her then, a good hard hit that sent her head reeling. It also cleared her senses.

"Wh- Ben? What are you doing here?" She wrinkled her nose in confusion. "And in a dress?"

"Long story. Is Dawn alright?"

Buffy's lip began to quiver as she looked behind him, over his shoulder, at the body of her sister. 

He too looked, and his voice filled with concern.

"God, Buffy. I'm so sorry. Here, let me help you."

He went to tend the man lying in the bed. After a few seconds, he turned to her, sadness in his expression. "I'm soffy, Buffy. Your friend didn't make it."

She looked up at him, and laughed. But the sound wasn't a happy one.

"Ben, he's a vampire. If I can wake him up, he'll live. Or unlive, Whatever."

Now it was Ben's turn to look confused. 

"Oookay, then. Want me to find you a nice piece of wood then? So you can finish him up?"

She gave him a good, hard look. 

"Nah. This one's my friend."

After Ben helped her put Spike into the front passenger seat, together they stretched Dawn out in the back.The Key was gone. Buffy would take her sister home, so she could lie beside her mother in Sunnydale Memorial. Where someday she'd join them.

"Maybe sooner than I'd like." She said aloud, to herself in the moonlight.

She stopped in the cemetery. The freshly-turned earth of a new grave made her think about- No.She wasn't ready to deal with that. Not yet. Not tonight. Skirting around, she parked the car in the bushes near the rear of the cemetery, within easy walking distance of Spike's crypt. 

"Okay, Bleachboy, you're home. Chez Spike. C'mon, Wake up. I don't think I can carry you."

She'd dressed him in his duster and the remains of the bedsheets. She was uncertain what Glory'd done with the rest of his clothing.She noticed now that most of the white of the sheets had gone red with blood from his chest wounds. Could a vampire bleed to death? 

She got out, and raced around to the other side of the car, then carefully hauled him out of it.As she pulled him to his feet, he made the first noise she'd heard out of him in an hour. "Aww Bleedin' hell." He choked up more blood, and stumbled, forcing his weight fully onto her. She staggered, then leaned him up against the car. 

"Well, I bet you're not going to like this much."

She scooped him up into her arms. Slayer strength was nice to have at a time like this, she speculated. He wasn't much taller than she was, or she'd never have made it to the door. It wasn't his weightthat posed the problem, so much as finding a way to carry him without pulling his chest back open. 

"Hello?" She peered in with her ungainly bundle. The crypt OUGHT to be unoccupied, but you never know- Maybe Harmony'd taken him back. Maybe he'd acquired friends- Nah, never that. But better safe than sorry. There could be enemies lying in wait. Now, those Spike had in abundance. 

But it seemed to be empty in here. Spike's impossibly Grand mausoleum- She'd wondered in the past what he'd done with its original occupants. Owing to the size of the place there must have been quite a few. "Honestly, how many crypts are big enough for a double bed?" she thought, as she slid him into said bed. 

Then she rooted around in his trunk for the first aide kit. "How sad is it that I know my way around in here?" she thought. 

She began changing bandages. The scratches were healing already, the holy water burns would take longer. She didn't know what to do about the cuts, though. They were enormous, and they weren't getting better yet. He was still bleeding profusely, especially from the over his heart. She could actually seeinside him where it gaped open. Pink, healthy heart tissue- normal sized. But it did not beat. 

Back to the first aid kit she went. Nothing. So she she went rummaging in the trunks again, and ultimately she did come up with a needle and some thread.

"Damn, I wish I'd paid more attention in home ec." 

When she was finished, she studied her handiwork. It wasn't bad, really- the stitches were much neater than those she'd put on that DISASTROUS pillow top for a unit grade. 

"Maybe fabric just is just not my medium to work in."

Spike's eyes opened slowly, as the Slayer came blearily into focus. 

"Buffy?"

"Ssh. You're okay, you're home."

He'd had this horrible dream, someone tried to rip his heart out. He looked down and saw-

His shriek startled Buffy as she was getting him blood out of the minifridge. 

He was sitting up in bed, looking at his stitches.

"You've sewn me up like a bloody quilt!" He ran his hands over the mess, in fear and wonder. 

"Yeah, well, I was sorta afraid you might turn over in your sleep and your HEART MIGHT FALL OUT." She slammed the door on the fridge and brought him the blood. 

Spike looked about, as he sipped. 

"Where's the Nibblet?"

Buffy finally broke. Her face crumpled, as Purpose lost out to Shellshock. She sat down on the side of the bed. 

"She's dead, Spike. She"-

His expression reflected her pain, confusion and sadness written in his blue eyes.

"What d'you mean, dead? I told her to stay here. Right here. Until I got back."

"I don't understand. She was here? Last night, before Glory got you?"  
"Yeah. See, I had this plan- great plan, brilliant. Only you lot don't trust me- How could I help the girl? So I went to her yesterday and I told her, and she was supposed to stay right HERE AND WAIT FOR ME"- 

His voice rose in intensity as he got angrier. How dare she put herself at risk like that? How dare she get herself killed, after all the trouble he'd gone to to keep her safe-

The door to the crypt's subcellar gave a couple firm 'thumps', and with a metallic whine, slid open partway. 

Dawn's sleep-softened face peered up at them in the darkness, catching the moonlight.

"Sheesh. Can you two keep it down? Some of us have to sleep at NIGHT."

Buffy was stunned.

"Dawn? DAWN? Omigod, you're alive!" She rushed to her, and hauled her bodily up out of the darkness below. 

There was bewilderment in Buffy's voice. 

"I saw you DIE."

Spike groaned in the bed, and not just from the pain of his injuries. 

"Oh, Bloody, hell. Buffy, that was not Dawn."

Dawn saw the hurt and horror in her sister's eyes.

"Oh, Buffy! You weren't supposed to see that! That, that wasn't me, okay? It wasn't. It was some kind of kamikaze Dawn Robot. Spike had her built. He thought we'd fake my death. No key- No Glory. If we can't kill her, then we'll drive her away. Spike, tell her"-

Buffy turned to him, waiting for answers.

"Eh, Buffy- you remember that chap Warren?"


	2. Vice

FIC: Darkest before dawn 2

TITLE: Darkest before dawn pt 2- Vice

AUTHOR: Nmissi@aol.com

PART: 2/??

PAIRING: B/S

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing and no one. Especially not Spike. If I did,

what makes you think I would share him with you? 

DISTRIBUTION: Want it? Take it. Just let me know where it goes.

RATING: R, for sexual situations

SPOILERS:IWMTLY, The Body, pretty much everything else.

SUMMARY: The way the story would go, If I ran the Buffyverse.

NOTE- Special thanks to the listmember who first suggested this opening scene. I loved your idea, so I ran with it. I'd love to see it on the show.

"So, anyway, Timmy's taking notes on Charity's little foray into the netherworld, right? For his book- and his publisher calls, so while Tabitha's trying to hear what's going on upstairs, he's talking to this publisher. And then, upstairs, Charity's bloke and the priest are standin' in the closet, right? Calling her name. Standing there in the bleedin' coat-hangers, and there's a roomful of people watching, and all there is, is a closet- It was too funny."

He took another drag off his cigarette. 

" I wish you could've seen it."

Footsteps interrupted his conversation with the new marble headstone. Someone was coming this way. 

"Better make myself scarce, then. Wouldn't do for people to see me chattin' up the deceased, Joyce. Gives the living strange ideas."

He backtracked towards his car. This wasn't his cemetery. He'd been driving across town to pay his respects. Well, that's what they called it these days, anyway. He thought of it more as a long, drawn out, wake. It was odd, really. He felt a strange sort of kinship with Mrs. Summers now. They were both dead, after all. Oh, he might not be able to see her anymore- but he was still somehow certain she could see him. And hear him. So two or three times a week he came by, and talked to her. Just like before she died. He'd tell her what she was missing on her soaps, he'd talk to her about Dawn and Buffy, he'd tell her stupid, inconsequential things like what he was having done on his car.Just conversation, really. It wasn't like he had anyone else to talk to these days. Buffy had avoided him every since the incident at Glory's house, and the Scoobies had made it quite clear they had no use for him.

He'd long since alienated his own kind.

If it weren't for the Nibblet, he'd have no friends at all.

He pulled his long black DeSoto around to the front gates, and turned his head for a final glimpse of Joyce's marble. Surprisingly, he could make out the thin figure of Buffy approaching it, in the moonlight.

She sat down in front of the headstone, and he saw that she had flowers in a bag on her arm. A quick glance behind her told him she hadn't taken the watcher's car, or her mother's. The bus then, he decided. He debated as to whether she might appreciate the offer of a ride home when she was through here. 

She carefully arranged the flowers into the green foam. Red silk tulips, bright purple silk bluebells, sprigs of artificial baby's breath, and pieces of yellow silk jonquils. There had been live flowers three weeks ago, at the funeral. But these would last longer; look pretty well into the summer perhaps. It was important to Buffy that her mother's grave look pretty. And they didn't allow you to plant real flowers on the graves here in Sunnydale. Dawn had thought that was awful.

"Why can't we plant real flowers for Mom? Why do we have to have tacky fake flowers?"

Mom would've liked real flowers planted here, thought Buffy.She'd have liked the zinnias and the roses from the front yard to be planted here. Instead, she had a silk arrangement from the Frank's Crafts down the road.It didn't seem quite fair. 

She placed her bouquet into the ugly little metal vase that pulled up out of the headstone base, and considered it.

"Hmm. Pretty. Didn't know I had so many skills, did you? I'm sorry Dawn didn't come along with. She's just not dealing with any of this very well yet."

She picked up the paper tags from the flowers, and the plastic wrapping from the flower foam, and returned it to the shopping bag. Restlessly, she wondered what she should do now.

"Joyce Summers 1960-2001"

It was there, solid, in black and white against pink marble.

She had thought that coming back here would help, somehow.

It didn't. The frenetic little monster in her head and her hands was still there. She'd been trying to still her nerves for weeks, trying to quiet the monster with noise and conversation, trying to wear it out with activity. 

Her nails were bitten to the quick. She hadn't slept more than an hour at a time, and she'd been having headaches, which her doctor attributed to her newly acquired habit of grinding her teeth when she DID. She'd organized the basement, and packed up the things in her mother's bedroom. The attic was sparkling. When she wasn't patrolling at night, she was cleaning during the daylight. The house had never been tidier, or better organized, but still it was not enough, not enough to subdue the hands that absolutely NEEDED to work, or to shut off the flow of thoughts she didn't want to have.

Without warning the spring sky crackled, and rain fell down in thick sheets. 

It was fitting, she thought. 

"Heaven ought to cry for my mother."

It was pouring now, and she was sitting out there on the dirt, getting sopping wet.

"Silly bint's not even wearing a jacket," Spike grumbled.

He started the engine back up, and pulled out from behind the building next to the iron gates. "Monuments and Sales Office," it announced to the world from its white placard and gray writing. He pulled back down the graveled roadway through the cemetery, back over to Buffy.

"Get in, Slayer. S'raining."

She looked at him for a minute as if she didn't quite see him. Then she stood, and picked up the white plastic sack, and walked to the car.

"It's an hour until the bus comes back," she said, getting into the seat alongside him. 

He turned up the heater. She was shivering slightly, and dripping all over the new seat covers. He reached behind her into the floorboard. 

"Here."

He chucked a ratty green army blanket at her, as he pulled out of the cemetery and onto the main highway.

She tossed the sack behind him into the back and wrapped the blanket around her lap, burying her fingers into its scratchy warmth. 

"They're nice flowers," he commented.

"They're fake. It's all the cemetery allows." She responded.

They rode along in companionable silence for a few miles, and Buffy finally stopped shivering. It was warmer in the car, and her clothes, while not dry yet, were no longer wet through. She still looked cold to him, though. Her hair hung in wet strings around her face. He turned in at a drive-thru place. 

"Want a hot chocolate, love? Might warm you a bit."

Buffy nodded.

"Right then. 'Two small hot chocolates, please.'" 

He looked back at her.

"You want anything else?"

She shook her head no, and in a few minutes he pulled up to the window. 

"Be careful- It's hot. Here."

He handed her the Styrofoam, and she looked around for a place to sit it.

"Cup holder, Spike?"

He gave her a look, and she sat the cup between her knees as she pried the little triangle open so she could drink it.

"You don't want to do that," he motioned to her knees. "One good pothole and it's all over your legs."

"Nah. More like all over your blanket."

They drove and drank hot chocolate. Buffy fidgeted in her seat, uncomfortable in the absence of conversation. Spike glimpsed over at her several times. At the red light he finally addressed her.

"What is it, pet? You're squirming."

She cast her eyes about, looking for somewhere to settle them. They came to rest on a point fixed somewhere about an inch the other side of the windshield, straight ahead.

"Umm, - Are you, uh- Healed up okay?" 

She'd been worried, but unwilling to go check him herself. 

Things still weren't right between them, his "crush" hung in the air like an unanswered question. It colored every thing she said, and every thing he did. 

He spared her another glance, as he tossed his empty cup out the window.

"Yeah."

She ignored the littering.

He fumbled a cigarette from his coat pocket, and tried to light it.

"Damn. This one's dead. Buffy, get me another lighter out of the glovebox."

"Where is it?" 

She had her hand in the glove compartment, but all she was pulling out were maps and papers. She laid the metal flask in the seat next to her, and went back to rummaging.

"I can't find it."

He leaned over, and she felt the cool hardness of his hand glide over hers as he felt about for the lighter. Just then her fingers closed over it. 

"Here, I've got it." She shoved it at him.

A spark lit up the harsh planes of his face in the interior gloom. Then it was gone, and she found him in the darknessby his rough tones.

"Want one?" 

His blue eyes were on her again, and now she could feel them, even if she couldn't see them.She thought for a minute, and then surprised him when she put her hand out.

"Yeah, sure."

He took the fag from between his lips and passed it to her, then lit himself another. She pulled the smoke between her lips, enjoying the warmth of it. It smelled bad; it WAS bad. But then, who was going to tell her she shouldn't? She inhaled deeply.

And choked.

She could practically Smell him Smirking at her in the blackness. She dropped the empty cup to the floorboard.

"Don't take such deep breaths, and hold your mouth open- take in the air with the smoke."

She did as he instructed, and found it much easier. 

He addressed her with amused reproach.

"Tsk. Tsk…What would your mother say?"

Her voice was hard, cold.

"My Mother is Dead."

Damn. He'd stepped right into that one, he had. With both feet. 

"I'm sorry, pet. Wasn't thinking."

"S'okay, Spike. I know."

He heard her hands, scrabbling in the seat between them.

"What's in the flask?"

What was she up to?

"Bourbon, pet. Same as the last time you saw it."

Ah. He understood.

She drew off the bottle. Her hiss of breath told him she didn't like it.

"Not to your taste, pet?"

She took another drink.

"S'fine."

They pulled up into her driveway. The house was dark, the porchlight off. It must be odd, he mused. There'd be no Joyce there waiting up for her, now.

She opened the door, and hesitated. Then she turned back to him, leaning her head back into the car.

"You want to come in?"

He saw his bottle was still in her hand, but her cigarette was gone now.

"Yeah. I'll do that." 

He turned off the engine.

She unlocked the front door, and then turned faced him across the threshold.

"Come on in, Spike."

He followed her, from the blackness without, to the blackness within. As she moved into the living room, he shut the door behind them.

"Where's the Bite-Sized One?" he asked.

Buffy was somewhere in the living room, but she'd yet to flick the lights. He moved toward the sound of her voice as she answered him.

"She's in L.A. with my Dad."

Oh.

Buffy was sitting on the edge of the coffee table, facing the sofa. STARING at the sofa, in fact.

He took a seat across from her. 

"Can I have another cigarette?"

"Well now. That was about the last thing I expected to hear you say," he drawled, as he reached into his coat pocket and drew out the box. She was still sucking on the bottle; he could just make out the shape of her hand and her face in the darkness. He lit her a fag and passed it over to her. 

"Here. Careful now, don't choke on this one."

She took it, then stood up, and stepped away from him. He could make out her figure in the dim light coming through the front door, as she considered the staircase. She tossed back another drink, and came back into the living room, and perched once more on the coffee table. 

Her smoke wafted toward him, and he lit another cigarette for himself.

"An ashtray, love?"

She rose, and walked into the kitchen. Some minutes later, she returned, and handed him a saucer.

"Will this do?"

"Yeah. It'll do."

She sank back down before him, drawing on the flask and the fag. There was restlessness in her motions, she moved around uncomfortably.

And Spike wondered what the Hell was going on here? 

Gently he asked her.

"Well, I'm here now. Not that I don't appreciate the re-invite, Pet, 'Cos I do. But really"-

His voice dropped even lower.

"What am I doing here?"

She tossed her head back, and from the way she swallowed he figured he'd have to refill that bottle when he got back home. It looked like she'd drained it.

"I just don't wanna be alone right now, Spike. Besides, it's not like you've got someplace else to be."

She had him dead to rights there.

They sat in the dark, smoking and not speaking. There was a current in the air, a sense of purpose. He was not gifted like Drucilla, but he had a sense of expectation, that something was about to happen-

She came at him unexpectedly. He flinched, only to find her mouth where he'd learned to anticipate her fists. She was in his lap, her mouth warm and hard against his. She tasted of his cigarettes and his booze, and smelled of warm things like vanilla and sunshine. He buried his hands in her hair, and dimly was aware of her hands upon him, moving. Like nervous animals her fingers searched him, digging hard into his shoulders and then down his chest, and up under his black t-shirt.

They stopped at one of the scars, and she ripped her mouth away from his.

"Does it hurt?"

"No, Slayer."

A short answer was all he had breath for. She was back at his mouth, and tugging his shirt up.

They broke apart to pull it over his head, and he turned to her soggy clothing. He ran his hands over the wet fabric of her shirt, pulling it taut against her nipples. She gasped, and lightly ran her nails over his scars. 

He sought her face in the dark, but he couldn't see her expression. 

"Slayer"-

"Ssh. Don't talk. I don't wanna talk."

The pain in her voice was wrenching. She kissed him with desperation, and he sensed the urgency within her. She needed this. Right or wrong, she needed him right now. 

It was enough.

Hastily he tugged her blouse up, exposing her pert breasts to the cool air. He pulled his mouth away from hers, and took her nipple between his lips, suckling, as she pressed her center against his hardness.

In his haste and passion he ripped her blouse; she retaliated by breaking the zipper on his jeans. She freed his erection from the denim, and he knew a moment's misery when she pulled free of him and stood. 

But she was back then, on her knees in front of him, and her mouth moving upon his length was glorious. Her untutored kiss exhilarated him. But he needed more than that, he needed her depths.

He dragged her up, and she understood. Quickly she peeled off the sodden suede pants and returned to his lap. He seized the back of her neck, and pulled her face to his for another frantic kiss. He could taste himself in her mouth now, and it excited him unbearably. His hand stole below, to caress her. She was all wetness and heat, gasping into his mouth as he plunged his fingers into her.

"Now, Spike. I need you, in me, now."

He would've carried her upstairs, but he knew he'd never make it. He was too wild with need of her. He slid his hands beneath the globes of her rump, lifting her slight weight. She was so deceptively fragile feeling in his arms.

She sank her nails into his shoulders as she plunged down upon his staff. Her head tilted back, he could hear the blood in her veins, the pounding of her heartbeat, the throbbing of her desire. He wanted to see her face, desperately needed to see her, but it was so dark. 

She rose and fell atop him, in the human rhythm of passion. He tipped her hips with his hands, wanting to bury himself inside her, to be deep within her walls. She was fire, a conflagration igniting his dead heart and immolating him until he feared there'd be nothing left, just a heap of ashes when she'd finished with him. 

Somewhere in their passion his demon surfaced, and her lips scraped against his fangs, drawing blood. It sang in his mouth, calling for more. She hissed painfully, rocking against him. Never breaking the rhythm, she tossed her head back, and called his name.

"Spike."

She wanted more, she wasn't there yet. Her breasts bounced before his eyes, as she rode him. He took one in his mouth, and sank his fangs in.

She came, in a scream, her nails in his back. Blood for blood.She didn't want him to stop. He could feel it. But he had to. The sweet taste of her blood in his throat, he retracted his fangs, and dragged her mouth back to his, in a forceful, almost angry kiss. He came inside her warm, wet heat.

She was sobbing quietly now, in his arms, and kissing the ridges of his forehead softly.

He regained control, shoving the demon within back down, as he held her and murmured soothing words to her.

"S'okay, pet. I'm here. Ssh, I'm here. I love you."

She sagged against him. For some minutes he just held her, listening to the hitches of her sobbing, until she was finally quiet, asleep on top of him.

He withdrew from her, sliding out, and cradled her head against his chest. He'd like nothing better than to sit here like this, with her, all night. Watch the sun rise with her. He wondered what her naked form would look like in warm sunlight, and knew a moment's bitter disappointment that he'd never see that sight.

Besides, it wouldn't do to have her awaken naked on her mother's couch. And what if one of her friends, or maybe her watcher, should come by? 

He laid her on the sofa. The moonlight through the window could touch her now, now that he wasn't in its way. 

"Jealous moonlight, that I touched her," he thought.

She was exquisite, her honeyed skin glowing before him. He'd never seen anything so lovely in his entire Unlife. His heart hurt just to look at her. 

She still slept. He lifted her in his arms, and carried her up to her bed. Gently he placed her within the covers, and kissed her forehead.

"Sleep well, love."

Then he went back down after his clothes, and dressed. He left feeling more wretched than when she'd uninvited him a month ago. He loved her. And it was breaking his heart. 


	3. Breakfast

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #3

AUTHOR: Nmissi

PART: 3/?

DISCLAIMER:I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did, 

what makes you think I'd share him with you?

DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's 

going.

RATING: PG13 for a teensy bit of language 

SPOILERS:Crush, IWMTLY, The Body...Pretty much everything.

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com

SUMMARY:The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

Looking on the bright side, at least he'd bitten her where no one would see the mark. It was a kindness both Dracula, and Angel, had not offered her. 

She rinsed the foamy bath soap off, noticing the bruising around the nipple and the two small holes. It hurt, faintly. But that was nothing compared to the soreness in the backs of her thighs, and her feminine parts. It was the tired ache of being well used, and some small part of her relished that feeling.

It was as if she could still feel him in her, on her, even now.It was a comfort. She'd felt empty and alone for weeks. 

She got out of the shower, and dressed lightly – just jeans and a white top with ¾ length sleeves. It took a few minutes to locate sneakers. Then she brushed her hair, and pulled it up into a ponytail at the back of her neck. But rummaging through the box of hair stuff on the dresser failed to yield anything to hold it in, and she walked across the hall, into her mother's room.

It was so quiet, with Dawn gone. The room smelled like potpourri, from the scented polish she'd used in here yesterday. Quickly, she moved into the private bathroom. There should be a pony-holder in here; she'd seen it in the medicine cabinet a few days ago. 

"Here we go."

She found the purple elastic band, and tugged it into place. 

"All better, no more bed-hair. Perky Buffy, ready to take on the world."

She struck a pose in the mirror, and gave herself a smile. But the smile cracked at the edges and it never met her eyes. She set her shoulders, and headed back out into the hallway. Just as she reached the top of the stairs, she heard a voice below.

"Buffy? You in here?"

Xander stood in the foyer, at he foot of the stairs. He was a little worried. The door had been unlocked, and no one had answered when he rang the bell. Swiftly he strode into the living room, peering about, calling toward the kitchen.

"Buffster?"

Then he took in the room around him. 

"Definite Weirdness, here."

In a pile next to the coffee table were some wet clothes, soaking into the rug. On the coffee table itself was a saucer, with two cigarette butts in it, and ash. Lying next to it was an open metal flask, the lid of which was on the floor by the clothes. And now he noticed the air itself held a stale, musty smell, of cigarettes and hard liquor. 

"Xander!"

Buffy was on the stairs now, and he turned his back on the conundrum of the living room to study her. 

She looked good, he decided. There was a confident smile on her face, and a bounce in her step. But as she descended the stairs, he got a good look at her empty eyes, and revised his opinion.

"Hiya Buffy. Thought I might come by, see if I could take you to breakfast"

Buffy gave him a friendly smile. He was so transparent. They all were, really. It was four days since Dad left with Dawn, and this made four days running that someone had been here trying to make her eat. Four days of :

"Let's go see a movie, Buffy."

"Wanna go shopping?"

"You need to get out of the house, Buffy, it's not healthy to be alone so much. And all this cleaning..."

And now here was Xander, doing his part for the team. Endearing, really it was.

"I'm not hungry, Xander. But thanks, anyway."

She moved into the living room, and wrinkled her nose up at the mess. 

"Ew. I guess I was more tired than I thought. Didn't mean to leave this stuff all out down here…Sit down, Xander, I'll get this picked up and then we can do the visit- thing, okay?"

So he plopped down on the couch, while Buffy hauled off the laundry to the basement. She was back directly to whisk the saucer and the flask off into the kitchen.

Something was digging in to his hip, he realized, shifting on the couch. He put his hand down between the back of the sofa and the cushion, and came up with a box of Marlboros. Flicking them open, he counted five cigarettes, and a cheap blue bic lighter. 

"What the"-?

She saw him then, and for some reason she blushed. Then she reached her hand out.

"Umm- here. Those are mine." 

He handed them to her with a skeptical look.

"Since when did you start smoking, Buffy?"

She sank down onto the seat next to him.

"Since now."

Her voice was hard, and Xander decided they'd have this whole conversation some other time. Like maybe when she didn't look like Her Mom Had Died.

"Er… Umm." 

He cleared his throat, and tried to make friendly conversation.

"I was serious about that whole, breakfast thing. It'd be charity, Buff, you coming with."

He gave her a knowing grimace.

"Anya made homemade pancakes from scratch this morning. I didn't have the heart to tell her you flip them BEFORE they dry out. Anyway- I'm a starving man. Sure you don't want to swing by Denney' s with me?"

"I' m sure. Not really in the mood to go out this morning, Xan. I have a lot of stuff to do around the house today." 

She grimaced. 

"Salvation army truck's coming. I'm gonna bag up the unwearables, see what room I can make in the closets."

Then she brightened.

" But hey- bear with me, I think there might possibly be food-type items in that pretty room at the back of the house. Let's go see."

He followed her into the kitchen, and she rooted around in the cabinets until she came up with Coco puffs and Milk for him. She poured them into a large salad bowl, and fished a spoon out of the dishwasher rack.

"There you go. Breakfast A la Buffy."

"A real taste treat." He answered, teasingly.

Between crunches of cereal, they talked.

"Mmm."

Crunch crunch crunch.  
"Delicious preservatives and sugar, the breakfast of Champions."

She got another saucer out of the dish cabinet, and took the seat across from him.Then she pulled out the box of cigarettes, and proceeded to light one. 

The box was familiar, he realized, then he made the connection. It was Spike's brand.

"You're smoking Spike's kind of cigarettes?"

"Um Hm", she murmured, nodding.

As she exhaled, she met his eyes.

"I stole them from him."

He considered that for a minute.

"Okay."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"He gave me a ride back home from the cemetery yesterday," 

"Buffy, if you need a ride someplace, you know me or Anya"-

She cut him off.

"Yes, Xander. I know. But I've been bugging you guys to do stuff for me for the last month. Yesterday I thought I'd just take the bus. But once I got out there, it started raining. Spike saw me, and offered to take me home. No Big Deal, okay?"

"Buffy, how can you say 'No big deal'? The guy is a VAMPIRE, remember? You slay 'em occasionally? And he's got this creepy obsession thing going. I just don't think it's a good idea"-

"Listen, Xander, Me and Spike, we- we worked it out, came to an understanding."

She took another drag off her cigarette.

"We're cool." 

Xander's frustration was readily apparent. His hands raked through his unkempt hair, and his mouth fixed in a hard line. 

"Buffy, you and Spike, you are- you are NOT COOL. The guy is a STALKER. Hello? He chained you up and tried to feed you to his crazy ex-girlfriend?"  
"Xan"-

But he would not be stopped.

"And that was AFTER declaring his Eternal Love to you. And if you recall, His Last "ETERNAL LOVE" he knocked unconscious with a tazer. And offered to stake. Trust me, Buffy- Spike is not your Pal."

"He's changed."

"Buffy, he's a soulless bloodsucking FIEND. He doesn't GET to change."

"Xander, I"-

"No. No way, Buffy. I won't let this happen. I know where this is coming from. What, Angel didn't give you enough grief? Or are you waiting for the chip to come out, so you can do "Angelus, Part two."

He ignored the look of pain in her eyes at that one. He had to get through to her, somehow.

"Buffy, Spike has tried to kill you more times than I can count. He devoted his Unlife to it. Then, all of a sudden, he can't hunt; he can't kill- so he redirects that attention into something else. If he can't kill you, he'll screw you."

His words were hard, and he knew it, but sometimes love was Tough. It had to be.

"That's all this is, Buffy. It's all about the hunt for Spike. 'Cos he's ultimately just another predator. And any good he does is just to try to get you into bed. He's not capable of more. It's just another hunt."

She stood up, and he raised his head to meet her level gaze.

"Then hey-problem solved…He should be all kinds of 'Over Me' now."

She watched as several emotions worked their way over her best friend's face in succession. Confusion, disbelief, anger, and then finally despair.

"Oh, no, Buffy. You didn't"-

She bristled under his displeasure, her chin jutting forward in defiance. She DARED him to rebuke her.

"Not that it's really ANY of your business"-

"BUFFY! WHAT THE hell WERE YOU THINKING?"

"At the time? Mostly that it felt good. Not much more, really"

He made a pained face, and she continued.

"And that was the POINT, Xander. I didn't want to have to think right then. I wanted to feel better, I just wanted to feel SOMETHING that wasn't all about losing mom, or losing Dawn. "

"Well I hope it was worth it, Buffy. He's a threat to us all."

She rolled her eyes.   
"Oh, come OFF it. He's no more a threat now than he was last week, or a month ago, or last year even. He'd never kill me- he loves me."

"He's not capable of Love."

"Why not? 'Cos he's a demon?"

"Yeah, well, that's one reason."

"Newsflash- Anya was too. And she's still not terribly human if you ask me. But you never question if she can love YOU."

"She's different, Buffy, she's not like him."

"Why not? She had over a thousand years as a Vengeance Demon. And she's proud of every one of them. Ever thought how many men she's killed, or tortured?"  
He looked away from her now. This was cutting a little close to the bone.

"Or were you just so happy to have your little Xander-whipped girlfriend that it didn't matter to you? What's a thousand years of Evil compared to connubial bliss, right? Doesn't matter to you, does it? Just so long as she's enthusiastic and really limber."

He stood up from the table, as angry as she'd ever seen him. 

"Buffy, you can't talk that way about Anya."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because I love her! And I won't have you talk about her that way, like she's some evil thing, like she's nothing better than SPIKE."

She'd hurt him, really hurt him. And as angry as he'd made her, she was sorry about that, hadn't really meant to say those things.

"Xander, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to go off like that. Really, Didn't mean to."

He walked over to the sink, his gait as stiff as his frown. Slowly, and with much slamming around of dishware, he rinsed off his things. 

Then he came back to her, and the look of contrition on her tired face wilted his ire.

"It's okay, Buffy. I'm sorry I yelled at you."

She looked up at him from under wisps of hair falling out of the ponytail. 

"S'okay. To forgive is divine, and all that. I forgive you. And I'm glad you forgive me. We're all forgivvy and stuff."

She hugged him, and he kissed the top of her hair.

Then she pulled back, and looked up at him.

"Xander?"

"Yeah, Buff?"

"Can you like, Not mention any of this conversation to the gang? You know, don't tell Willow, and Tara, and , Oh, God, Don't say anything to Giles."

Her brow furrowed as she considered the ramifications of Giles finding out. That would be Bad, she decided. Really, Really bad.

Xander let go of her and stepped back.

"God, Buffy. You want me to just keep quiet about this? You Boinked the Vampire. Another one. I can see all kinds of different scenarios playing out ahead of us, and all of 'em are BAD. Don't you think they oughtta be warned?"

"Please, Xander? I'm just not ready to deal withall that yet, okay? Besides, it's personal.. Not like everyone always has to know every little bit of Buffy-business."

He searched her face.

"Buffy, tell me you don't love him."

"I don't."

"Thank God." 

He released a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

"But I do care about him, Xander. And I believe him when he says he loves me. I'm not sure exactly where we are now, but he is my friend. I trust him like I trust you."

"Yeah? You never exactly expressed THAT kinda trust to me."

She rolled her eyes at him.

"Okay, that was Really Uncalled For."

He knew it. He was being petty. He loved Anya; he was long over Buffy. But it hurt his pride, it did, that she'd gotten involved with another Vamp.

"Look, I'm sorry about that. It's a Pride thing, I guess. It's never me. Never Xander for Buffy. It's always someone else. Angel, Parker, Riley. Now Spike. And I've been here all this time, and it's never me you want."

His shoulders sagged.

"Kinda stings."

She went to him, and hugged him. 

"Xander, I know you're a guy, and so this is gonna be a little hard for you to understand. But not every kind of love is about sex."

She was right. He really didn't understand at all.


	4. Reflections in a Guiness

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #4 "Reflections in a Guiness"  
AUTHOR: Nmissi  
PART: 4/?  
DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,   
what makes you think I'd share him with you?  
DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's   
going.  
Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com  
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

The silky tang of blood scent, the undercurrent of Fear …It was homey and welcoming to the vampires in the room. The mortals smelled only beer, and sweat. They lacked the discernment to perceive their predators, stalking the edges of the herd, weaving into and out of the dancing crowds.In the bathroom, a girl lay bleeding, near to death in one of the stalls, while her friends applied lipstick on the other side of the door.A corpse lay cooling in the parking lot, and at the bar someone knocked back a suspiciously red-tinged tequila sunrise. It was nightfall on the Hellmouth. 

"A lingering concern I have, mate, is just how much of your money I can take before it occurs to you -you haven't the faintest idea how to play pool."

The crack of cue against ivory was crisp in the air, somehow loud against the barroom din, as Spike worked the mortals for money. It was their third game, and he'd already relieved the frat-types of two twenties and a fiver. Not bad for a few hours honest work, he figured.

"Just rack 'em, English."

The college boy had lost his last five dollars to the foreigner, and he was none too happy about it. 

Spike studied him momentarily, then shrugged his shoulders.

"Whatever. S'your funeral."

It was over in mere minutes, and he took more of their money with a snarky smile.

"Pleasure doin' business with you blokes…Come back 'round when you learn the game, eh?"

They left him then, dark expressions on their cookie cutter faces.

"Hmm. Right then. Just four more names to add to the ever- growing list of people that'd like to see me dead." 

He brushed it off. If they wanted trouble with him, he'd be available later this evening, in the parking lot, or the cemetery. After he'd had a couple of beers. That WAS the point of the whole dreadful boring pool game, he figured. So he threaded his way through the gyrating teenyboppers, across the room to the bar. 

"Guiness," he said, laying money down. 

The bartender crooked a brow at this, and the vampire smiled winningly.

"Oh, all right then. What's my tab at now? I'll make good."

They conferred over figures a few minutes, before settling up. Finally Spike was alone with his beer. He took a seat along the wall, and watched the people in silence. 

He could hear their heartbeats, could smell the elixir in their veins. He watched as they moved together, in pairs, and separately, alone at tables.

Alone just as he was.

It was funny, he supposed. He was a Vampire, a hunter amongst his prey. And yet he felt more at one with the vibrant crowd, than with the other predators. 

Oh, he could see them. Other vamps like himself, stirring in the shadows. Only the newest, rawest of the undead were Obvious- the others hunted unobtrusively, sticking to the dark, clustering along the walls. Occasionally they would engage a human in conversation, or in a dance, but it was all an act, all to further the hunt. They didn't feel the music, or find the people interesting. It was all about feeding. 

More and more he felt this way, these days.He'd always held on to too much of his mortality. Vampire Society had its own hierarchy and its own chronology. It moved slower than the mortal world. But Spike had never lived outside the humans; he'd lived among them. Drinking their blood even as he read their books and watched their movies, killing them even as he marveled at everything they, as a race, were capable of. 

"That's it. I'm a bloody Roman- pilfering civilizations I crush under my heel."

He brought a steel-toed boot topside of the table, and rested it there on the edge, and took another swig off a second beer. He fumbled in his pocket for his cigarettes, before he remembered he'd lost them.

At the slayer's house. While shagging her.

He smiled, and tapped his foot on the table in time to the music. Then he finished off his beer and ordered another one.

Only in the last year or so, only since the Chip, had he come to feel this peculiar affinity with the mortals, however. He'd always admired them. But something had changed.Even now that the Chip was out, he still hadn't been able to summon the nerve to kill.

Oh, he'd put the urge to the test, as soon as he'd been back upon his feet. Barroom brawls had become his new hobby. And he had developed a fondness for a certain species of adversary; he liked to fight men of a superior build than his own, men with more muscle than mind. 

He was not so blind as to miss the significance of his "type"; he'd always been very perceptive. Night after night, he was going out into the dark, to smash in faces with strong noses and dimpled chins, to test himself against thick fleshy forearms and necks as broad as his thighs. 

His Riley-and-Angel surrogates. His hatred was at a peak when he fought them, his demon keyed up, at the ready. The thirst for their blood, insatiable.

Yet he would not drink them, would not kill them. 

It disconcerted him no end. Somewhere in his head he could still hear the voice of Angelus, the voice of authority, laughing at him. 

"Sod it. Poofter's out of your life. Get a grip."

He was aware he was talking to himself. Fortunately the succession of beers kept him from caring all that much. Damn it all. He'd successfully NOT THOUGHT about the early years of his unlife in a couple of decades. This was no time to get maudlin. 

And the Damn Scoobies. That whole bit had hurt. He'd thought of himself as a part of the team, and their lot had turned on him like a pack of vicious dogs. He was still smarting over that. Logically, he could see their point- He WAS a vampire. And yeah,he'd tried to kill them a few times. But did nothing he'd done in the last year count? He'd listened to their sob stories, he'd fought the good fight right alongside them. He talked books with Giles and played pool with Xander. You'd think that sort of thing would get him a little consideration, but no. Not Spike, he was Eeev-ill.

Damn the ungrateful lot of them. It'd serve them all right if he ate each and every one.

Oh. Yeah, there was that bit. Buffy. Buffy might not like that. If he ate her Watcher, and her friends, Buffy would be angry, Buffy might…

(cry)

…stake his Undead Arse.

He fell back into contemplating his beer, and wishing he had a cigarette.


	5. Angel

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #5

AUTHOR: Nmissi  
PART: 5/?  
DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,   
what makes you think I'd share him with you?  
DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's   
going.  
Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com  
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

His back ached, and a torn ligament in his shoulder reminded him why it was he'd never particularly cared for that type of Demon. One of their number had seized him between its jaws during the scuffle, and viciously shaken him like a terrier with a chew toy. He'd live, sure- but the indignity of being mauled by an oversized Dog would hurt for months to come. There were witnesses. And Cordy in particular could never resist the opportunity to needle him. The fact that his favorite shirt was now soaked in Dog-drool was just bonus.

As Angel came into the hotel, he caught the scent of an unfamiliar human; female, and young. She was somewhere in the lobby.

She stood up from a chair where she'd been waiting for him. He looked her over- Long brown hair, dark eyes, good skin. About fifteen, he'd say.

"Angel," she said. Then the universe tilted slightly as reality made an adjustment.

"Dawn! What are you doing here?" he replied.

"Right then. If its nothing to you, I'll be on my merry way…"

Spike tried to pull free of the arm that clamped him against the side of the Bronze. Hisworld was swimming, to some extent, courtesy of the fine folks at the Miller Brewing Company. Two fistfights and a minor scuffle, and he hadn't even knocked his buzz off. But he could feel sobriety up ahead, as he took in the Slayer's exasperated expression.

"No, you WON'T be "On your way". We need to talk."

Oh, ick. She wanted to talk.

"Why d'you bloody women always want to talk when I'm pissed?"

"Huh? What are you mad about?"

He shook his head at her, frustrated.

"Americans. No, I'm not angry, pet…I'm Pissed- Drunk. Y'know, loaded. Too many beers on an empty stomach, that sort of thing…"

She rolled her eyes and let go of his arm. Unfortunately he'd come to depend upon it for verticality, and slipped sideways toward the asphalt.She grabbed at him, hauling him back up, trying to maneuver him down the alleyway towards his parked car. 

"Spike, c'mon. Walk it off. We have to leave for L. A. tonight, you need to sober up so you can drive."

L.A. What was in L.A.? He couldn't quite remember.

Peaches. Oh, yeah, that was it. Peaches was in L. A., and Buffy wanted to go there.

His fuzzy brain tried to process this data, but even in its pickled state he knew there were some things that weren't adding up right. Buffy hadn't spoken to him since the other night, when he'd taken her home from the cemetery. He was quite certain of that, since he'd been avoiding her like the plague. So he was equally certain he hadn't promised to drive her anywhere. And even if he had, he couldn't imagine any circumstance under which he'd have promised to take her to Angel. 

She was rambling on, now, and he knew he'd missed some of what she'd been saying. He just hoped it wasn't anything important that she'd be mad about later.

"- and so when I saw the message light, I thought it might be Dawn. But it was Dad, and he was asking for Dawn here at home. When I tried him back, I got no answer, but that could be 'cos he's out looking for her. I've got Giles staying at the house in case he calls back, And Anya gave me her cell, so I can touch base occasionally, and-"

Okay. Somewhere in all that rubbish was something important. He was sure of it. He played it back in his head, dredging for clues.

Oh. Right. Dawn. Nibblet-

"The nibblet's gone missing?" he asked, as his mouth caught up with his brain.

"Oblivious, much? Gees, Spike, I've already told you this a couple times. Get yourself together. We need to swing by my house and pick up my bag, and-"

She looked him over, taking in the red shirt, black shirt, jeans motif. 

"I guess you don't need a bag."

"Buffy, I can't drive right now. I'm sloshed, snookered. Moreover, its only a few hours til daybreak and we won't make it there in time."

Although the idea of a Road Trip with Buffy had its merits, he was trying to be practical. He'd live through a car wreck, most likely-but maybe she wouldn't. 

He became aware of her hand in his pocket.

"ooh, Naughty, Slayer. I thought we didn't have time to play-"

"Can it, Spike."

Her fist came away with his car keys clutched in it. 

"New plan," she said, opening the back door and sort of shoving him inside.

"Get under the blanket, and try to sleep it off."

Spike knew fear then, real and honest fear.

"Oh God. You're going to drive my car."

Dawn sat across the table from him, sipping the can of Dr. Pepper he'd bought her, looking for all the world like someone kicked her puppy. He'd been gentle with her, not wanting to press. She had a reason for coming to him, and he knew she'd tell him when she was ready. He'd left her alone while he went to shower, and come back to find her still sitting exactly as he'd left her in the lobby. That was an hour ago, most of which she'd spent staring at her feet, or looking around the room. She'd said her dad didn't know she was here, and that was a problem- But he had no way of contacting Hank right now. Angel didn't even know Mr. Summers' phone number. The last he'd heard, her father had been in Italy. What was she doing in Los Angeles?

She finished off the can with an unladylike burp.

"Sorry," she said sheepishly.

"It's okay," he shrugged.

"So… Are you going to sit there and stare at me all night, or are you going to tell me what you're doing here?"

She regarded him sharply, then asked him her question.

"Do you know me?"

His perplexed expression made her to continue.

"I mean, You know who I am, right? You remember me?"

He gave her a cockeyed grin.

"No- I am in the habit of buying soft drinks for strangers who let themselves into my house. How did you get in here, anyway?"

"I jimmied your doorlock with a credit card."

If possible, he looked even more confused now.

"I mean- You know, I didn't hurt it or anything. Your locks, I mean, not the card"-

He leaned back in his seat.

"I guess I need a more State-of-the-art home security system. Where'd you learn to pick locks, anyway?"

"Sp- Somebody taught me. A friend."

"Not a very good friend if they're teaching you stuff like that, Dawn. I have the distinct impression Buffy wouldn't approve of you having friends like that."

She colored up, embarrassed, and he went on.

"Well, you're here now- What's wrong, kiddo? You look awful. And where's Buffy? Does she know you're here?"

She shook her head.

"No. Buffy sent me home with Dad. He's not much help, though- too busy with work, and he doesn't know how to handle any of this anyway. He didn't love her anymore, not like we do. He doesn't get it, just tells me that I'm not dealing with it right. Like there's a right way, anyway?He keeps talking about "Grief counselors" and therapy and stuff-"

Grief counselors?

Angel interrupted.

"Dawn, what are you talking about? Grief for who? Who died, Dawn?"

His voice was intense, urgent. He didn't mean to frighten her, but she'd badly frightened him.

"I'm sorry, Angel- I just, I just figured Buffy woulda told you, or Giles…"

She raised her eyes to his then, and he saw the despair and anguish hidden in their dark depths.

"My mom passed away a month ago."

The bottom fell out of his stomach. Joyce? Joyce was dead?

Focus, Angel, Focus. The girl's just lost her mother. She needs something from you or she wouldn't be here. 

"How? What happened, honey?"

"It was complications from the surgery. An Aneurysm, they called it. Buffy- Buffy came home and found her dead in the living room."

She was pale now, and shaking as she made her explanations. Angel got up, and walked around the table to stand beside her. He brushed his hand over her glossy hair, and she leaned her head against his hip. 

"I'm so sorry, Dawn. I'm so sorry."

He was centuries old, and still he didn't know how to do this, hadn't worked out a method for dealing with death and loss. Even when it was a stranger, he had this numb ache, and didn't know what to say, or do. But this, this was practically Family. He had loved Buffy. Loved her still, in fact. And he'd been close to them all, her mother, her sister… Dawn was leaning in to him now, crying silently, and he let his arms go around her shoulders as he pulled her close. He had to hug her. He didn't know what else to do with his hands.

"I'm sorry honey. I wish it didn't hurt so bad."

She just clutched at him around his waist, and cried.


	6. Interlude

TITLE: Darkest before dawn #6 "interlude"

AUTHOR: Nmissi@aol.com

PART: 6/??

PAIRING: B/S

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing and no one. Especially not Spike. If I did,

what makes you think I would share him with you? 

DISTRIBUTION: Want it? Take it. Just let me know where it goes.

RATING: R, for sexual situations

SPOILERS:IWMTLY, The Body, pretty much everything else.

SUMMARY: The way the story would go, if I ran the Buffyverse.

Spike woke to the light filtering through the shabby blanket. Instinct told him nightfall was still some good way off. He pushed the blanket off, sitting up inside of the darkened car.

"What time is it?" 

She met his eyes in the rearview mirror, shoving fuzzy dice out of her way. 

"About nine a.m."

He groaned.

"Bloody Hell."

At least the car was intact. He still couldn't believe he'd let her drive.

"Go back to sleep, Spike. We're about ninety minutes from L.A., I'll wake you up then."

He shifted uncomfortably in the backseat. It was one thing to have slept the wee hours of last night- He'd been smashed off his gourd. But now that he was in his RIGHT mind, the notion of sleeping quietly in the backseat while Buffy missed stop signs and red lights, careening through four way stops and up one way streets-no, he definitely couldn't see himself resting. 

"I'm not sleepy, pet. Listen, why don't you pull over, let me drive for awhile."

"No."

"Er- what do you mean, ' No'?"

"Which part're you stuck on, the 'N', or the 'O'"? 

He grimaced at her obstinacy.

"Look, it is MY CAR, Slayer. I think I oughtta"-

She cut him off. 

"I said NO. I didn't have any problem at all last night. Well, okay, aside from your obnoxious snoring in the backseat"-

"I do not snore," he retorted.

"Whatever. But you might wanna look around for the spotted owl back there, 'cos that was some serious wood sawing."

He wasn't fully awake yet, so a simple declarative was all he could manage for a snappy reply.

"Shut up."

She did only slightly better.

"Make me."

She reached into the side pouch of her purse, and pulled out a cell phone. 

"Here. Hit recall #2, ask Giles if he's heard from Dawn yet."

He caught the phone she chucked blindly into the backseat.

"Watch it! You almost hit me in the head with that."

"Like there's a vital organ in there or something."

"Well, look who got up on the wrong side of the steering wheel this morning," he sneered, as he put fingers to phone.

"Bite Me."

He grinned.

"Lovely idea, pet.I think we can work that into our itinerary…."

She groaned in front of him.

"Just shut up and dial, Spike."

She decided he must have done so, since he began talking to someone that wasn't her. 

"Yeah. S'me. Let me speak to the Watcher."

A few seconds pause, before he continued.

" The nibblet check in yet? Oh. Well, have you tried her father again? Oh, - I see. Okay. Will do."

He clicked a button, and the phone made an angry beep, so he hit another one. Frustrated, he pressed several more.

"How d'you turn the bloody thing off?"

"Hit the 'talk' button, just like you did to turn it on."

He did so, and put his hand over the front seat, reaching for her purse. She didn't stop him, and he lifted it over and into the back with him, and put the phone into the side pouch.

"Giles talked to your father last night, coupla times. Says he's leaving for London at 3:30, so he can't meet us today. He'll be back noon, day after tomorrow. Said you could stay in his apartment while you're looking for your sis. "

She snorted in response.

"Your watcher made a point of noting that your dad tried to reschedule, but it didn't work out."

"I'll just bet he tried real hard."

The note of cynical pain in her tone wounded him, and he knew a momentary urge to rearrange her father's face, if not his day planner. 

"Sorry, Buffy," said Spike, leaning forward as he brushed his hand against her shoulder in an awkward pat.

She absorbed the sincerity in his voice. It warmed her. She reached for the hand on her shoulder and squeezed it tightly. He leaned against the back of her seat and she felt his lips on her hair. 

Unfortunately the cuddly- handholding - moment left Buffy driving with her left, and she was slowly swerving into the other lane.

"The road, girl! Watch the bloody road!"

"Sorry!" 

She snatched her hand back and over-corrected, veering way onto the right road shoulder.

Spike white-knuckled the back of her seat. 

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to go over so far. I'm just- I'm used to driving an automatic. I'm not really getting this whole shifty thing."

Spike chose his words carefully, and kept his voice even.

"Pet, you do know how to drive one of these, don't you? I mean, you've driven one before, right?"

She nodded vigorously.

"Giles gave me a few lessons when he bought his new car. I have it in theory- It's just the practice that's not working out so well."

That's it, he decided. Enough.

"Hey, what are you- Stop it! You're gonna make me wreck."

Her voice was edgy as he threw one leg over the front seat. Then he followed it with an arm, and his head, twisting around to drag his other limbs across into the seat. 

He had hoisted himself up front, and was now sitting alongside her.

"Stop the car, Buffy. Now."

The timbre of his voice brooked no argument, and Buffy found herself pulling off to the side. She reached for the door handle.

"What're you doing?! Don't open the door, dammit."

She looked at him, perplexed, and he lowered his eyebrows and pulled his mouth into a line.

"It's a nice day out, yeah, but I don't fancy a sunburn right now. If that's alright by you."

She colored up.

"Oh. I- I wasn't thinking, Spike. I'm sorry."

He reassured her with a winning smile.

"Here, let's try it this way. You slip across me" he said, gesturing across his lap," and I'll slide over to your seat."

She put her hands down on the seat, lifting up, and scooted over to him, putting her weight on one hand and on his left leg. He brought his hands up around her waist, and pulled her against him, snugly into his lap. She shifted against him, enjoying the closeness, and put her hands over his. She caressed his hands a few seconds, then let go.

"C'mon Spike. We don't have time for this."

"For what?" he asked innocently.

She gave him a stern glare, and he grinned at her. He knew her heart wasn't in it.

"He's awfully playful this morning", she thought.

"I'm serious. Dawn, remember?"

He groaned dramatically, and released her, pinching her rear before sliding out from under her.

"Spoilsport." 

She flipped him the bird, smiling angelically, as he got them back out onto the road.

He'd listened to her story, maintaining his poker face throughout. It was absurd, the things she was telling him. What could have put such ideas in a girl's head?

"So Glory freaked out, and now Ben has primary control of the Body. At least for the time being. And I came here to live with dad, since I'm supposed to be dead."

Her face was earnest, and he knew she'd reached the important part by the drop in her voice, the telltale gestures of her hands.

"And I'm thinking, well- If the monks could fix everybody's memories, even mine- if they could make me up out of energy, and make me real to everybody, well- Couldn't somebody do it again? Change reality, I mean. Like make a spell that fixes Mom, so she didn't die."

Her eyes were upon him, wide and hopeful.

"I don't know, Dawn. If what you say is true, then the monks are all dead now, and there's nobody to do another spell"-

"See, Angel, that's where you come in. You're supposed to be this big important vampire, with a special destiny and stuff. God really likes you, you got a 'get out of hell free' card,right?"

He wasn't sure what she was getting at.

"Umm. Yes, Okay- I'm supposed to have some destiny."

He scoffed at that, though, even as he said it.

"Well, I figure I get you as a go-between. You tell your'Powers That Be' to give my mother back."  
She gave him a smile that was blinding in its innocence.

"Dawn, I don't know if that"-

She shook her head at him.

"I know its possible. The fact that I'm even HERE says its possible. If some cruddy old monks can make an energy-key-thing into a live girl, then somebody can make my mother alive again."

She saw the hesitation on his face and rushed ahead, desperate to convince him. 

"And with you backing me up, it's practically a done deal. You're special, you're important enough so they fixed the rules for you once already- You can get her back for me."

"I don't know how, honey."

She seized his arm now, clutching at him.

"Just tell them you want her back. Tell them you won't do what they want you to if they don't send her back."

"It's not like that-"

"YES, it IS. You're Chosen, just like my sister.

"It doesn't work that way. It's not "your mission, should you choose to accept it"- They send Cordelia visions of danger, and I act to stop that danger. It's not like I can drop them a letter or go renegotiate the arrangement."

"But God likes you, you're 'Chosen'"! 

She pleaded pitiably.

He sighed.

"Yeah, I guess I am. Although being "Chosen" by God isn't all its cracked up to be. Ask the Hebrews what it's done for them lately."

Her face fell. His words were sinking in.

"You won't help me?"

It was his turn to plead with her.

"Dawn, I don't think I can. And I haven't the first idea how to do what you're asking of me."

The sun was peeking in through the front windows, now. He really needed to go to bed, and by the looks of it, so did she. 

"Listen, sweetie. I need to figure this out. I don't know if what you want from me is even possible, and I don't really think it is. But I want to help you however I can. Will you please let me call Buffy?"

"No! No, You can't! She's got her hands full back in Sunnydale, She doesn't need to know about this."

"Well, your dad then. Surely he must be getting worried."

"He's on a business trip to London. He left last night, and won't be back until day after tomorrow. If you talk to your god, maybe by then it'll all be over and he won't even remember I was here this week."

He thought about all the rooms upstairs. It shouldn't be too much trouble to make one up for her. Of course, that probably wouldn't look right- Him living alone with a young girl, even for a few days- Very bad idea. He was still a little uncomfortable about the whole "Buffy" thing. Yes, she'd been very mature for her age- But the fact of the matter was, she'd been sixteen. Only a year older than her little sister here, he mused. It didn't matter how much in love with Buffy he had been- Angel still didn't feel right about their relationship back then. He'd been uncomfortable with his feelings for her then- And it was no less disturbing to him now. Maybe he should find Dawn someplace else to stay.

"Dawn, I'm going to call a friend, and see if you can stay with her today. I need to get upstairs and get some sleep."

She was chagrined.

"Of course. I'm sorry, Angel- I didn't think. Of course, you're on the third-shift schedule, you're a vampire."

Duh, Dawn. Big Dumb Duh, she thought.

He gave her a quick hug. 

"Let me go call Cordy."


	7. History Lessons

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #6 "history lesson'

AUTHOR: Nmissi  
PART: 6/?  
DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,   
what makes you think I'd share him with you?  
DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's   
going.  
Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com  
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

Dawn watched as the leggy brunette exchanged words with Angel in the doorway. He looked over at her, then bent his head back to his visitor. 

" I guess he told her about my Mom," thought Dawn, as Cordelia shot her a pitying gaze from the entryway. 

She hated them, thoseknowing glances that people meant to be comforting. They always made her feel like a science exhibit. 

Cordy entered, a whirl of pastel paisley in white sandals, clicking their way across the room She stopped directly in front of the disheveled teenager, and smiled at her.

"Hi Dawn."

She was trying to be friendly, Dawn knew that. But somehow she just didn't have it in her to smile back when she spoke.

"Hey Cordy."

Angel broke in.

"Dawn, I have to get some sleep. Cordy's going to take you home with her, right now, and I'll be over later to get you when the sun sets."

He turned to his co-worker, taking her elbow gently as he steered her out of Dawn's hearing.

"Listen, Cordy. I want you to try to get her to call Buffy. I know she'd be going out of her mind if she knew Dawn came all the way over here all alone. If she's tried to call her dad's house she could be really worried."

Cordy's confusion was obvious.

"Why can't we just call her then?"

"I don't think it's a good idea. She specifically asked me not to call Buffy. I don't want to go behind her back.If Dawn feels she can't trust us she may run… I don't think I need to remind you what the streets are like in this town." 

They both spared a moment to think about the kids over at Anne's shelter house, and shuddered. Then Cordelia squared her shoulders and walked back to her charge.

"Listen, honey, think you feel like breakfast?"

"I'm not hungry," came the listless reply.

"Oh- Okay. We'll just get drive-thru then." 

She waited expectantly. Dawn got to her feet slowly and with great reluctance. She liked Cordy, she always had. But Cordelia Chase came in two modes: Chirping Cheerful and Biting Bitch. Neither one really appealed right now. 

Angel watched them leave the hotel, then went upstairs to bed. 

" I can see your mother's influence here."

Buffy looked at Spike quizzically. 

"How do you mean?"

He fixed her with his gaze.

"The style. The art."

He stretched his arms out, indicating the entire room. 

"I'll bet she found most of these gems for him, didn't she?"

She looked away quickly.

"I wouldn't know."

They were in her father's Los Angeles apartment, a corner penthouse in a stylish modern high-rise. 

Spike sat down on the white leather couch. They had been here about ten minutes, and still she hadn't really spoken. She was walking around the fashionably appointed living room. Occasionally she would stop to look at a picture, or to examine some nicknack. He wasn't sure what she was doing. How would any of this help find her sister?

"Pet? Shouldn't we be looking for clues, or something?"

Buffy looked up from a nice piece of mayan pottery had been inspecting. For a minute she'd forgotten he was here.

She put the pot down.   
"Sorry. I got distracted."

He got up off the couchand came to her. 

"Maybe you should go lay down for a bit. You drove half the night, and didn't sleep much this morning when I took over. I don't mean to be rough, slayer, but you look like hell."

"I can't, Spike. I just can't. Not right now." 

She paced over to the fireplace, her eyes on her sister's framed portrait on the mantel.

"She needs me. She needs me to find her."

He understood her need for action. She'd been manic for weeks, every since the funeral. But she was haggard and worn out. She wasn't at the top of her game, and he was worried about her safety.

"Love, let me do some of the work. I'll make a few calls, and come nightfall we'll hit the streets and search. Meantime, you lay down, and I'll search the apartment for clues."

He said this as he gently tried to steer her toward the couch, to convince her to lie down. But she balked, and he watched as she walked down the hallway towards what he presumed was Dawn's room.

Entering behind her, he found he was half-right. It was a guest room, suitable for a teenage daughter, or for someone else if the occasion warranted. Tastefully age-neutral, the lilac walls picked up the floral accents in the bedspread, and the pictures on them were suitably pastel and impressionist. Their white frames harmonized with the wicker furnishings. But the room had no personal touches, nothing in it said "I'm Dawn's (or Buffy's) room."

Except the smell- He could smell her in here, on the bed linens. He knew her scent, that unusual mixture of Baby Soft perfume, fabric softener, and bubblegum. For a moment, he felt oddly better, comforted by the fact that she'd been in this room.

He hadn't realized how much he had missed her.

"I can smell Bite-size in here, fairly recently," he offered.

Buffy opened the closet, but it was empty.

"She took her suitcase, I guess."

Spike opened the drawers of the dresser, finding each empty.

"Looks as if she never unpacked."

Buffy sank down on the bedspread, and the tears came. She sat there and wept brokenly, her breathing ragged and her sobs hiccoughing. 

"I don't know what's wrong with me," she sniffled, " I'm – I'm usually stronger than this. I – I don't just cry. But seems like its all I do anymore."

He stood there, powerless in the face of her despair. His hands worked at his sides, clenching and unclenching, as he shifted from one foot to the other. He ached to reach out to her, wanted to enfold her in his arms and hold her tightly. But he hesitated. Might she take it amiss? She was feeling weak and helpless already- He didn't want to reinforce that idea by trying to cuddle her. No, she might mistake Cuddle for Coddle and she might not take it kindly.

Cautiously, he approached, and sank down onto the bed beside her. She didn't repel him, so he put an arm around her shoulders.

"You're just tired, is all. You get some rest, and maybe you'll feel better when you wake up."

She pulled free of him, and he knew he'd somehow said the wrong thing.

"What do you know about any of it?" She said angrily.

"You've never mourned anybody in your entire life. You're a killer, Spike, it's what you do. I don't expect you to understand. You're not capable of loving, and mourning. You've no idea what Dawn is going through right now, how she feels, what she's lost.You've never missed anybody like she misses my mom. And you don't know how I feel right now, worried about my baby sister. You don't have family, you can't possibly understand."

That hurt more than it should, he reckoned. She was pissing him off.

"How do you know what I can feel, Slayer? You and your self-righteous pain. You think you're the only person who ever buried a parent? Or worried about a sister?I can tell you tales, girl. Death for you is so sanitized, so far removed from "real life" …I'll bet your mum was the first one you've ever seen, that you weren't directly responsible for. Or all the corpses in your life- Grandparents, friends of the family, whatever- I bet they were all primped and pretty in their coffins by the time you saw 'em, eh? Nice to look at, like they're asleep. All clean and tidy, and not stinking of their own shit and vomit. Dressed up for church and looking all peaceful."

She was watching him now. Her anger had shut off her tears, and she was paying attention. He was glad. He wanted to tell her, all of a sudden, wanted to talk about things he hadn't discussed with anyone, before.

"My father died of the pox, Slayer. It's a painful, disfiguring disease. It ate up a handsome face and made it grotesque. For years the boogeymen in my nightmares all wore m' father's bloated face. Pox'll do that, make y' bloat up like that, afore you're even dead. And it drove him mad too, in the end, making him to shout obscenities and hurl insults at us children. I was seven, and had four sisters. We took turns at the bedside. If we'd had more money we could have farmed him out, or hired help, but we didn't. So the work fell to us kids…cleaning him, feeding him, treating his condition. We all knew he'd got it off the local whore, and how he'd shamed our mother, but still- You take care of your own, even if your own's a miserable bastard."

Her eyes stayed on him, but he didn't notice, now lost in his reverie.

"When he expired, I was relieved. It was so awful in the last stages, you see- We all just prayed to God to end it. Then it was over, and there was more work to be done. Ma Mere washed the body, and Polly went to get the neighbor's boys to help bury him. We couldn't have a proper wake, not with him in the condition he was- the whole neighborhood knew our disgrace. Laetitia stitched up a hole in his good suit. I was sent to find guineas for his eyelids, I remember, and I remember resenting wasting good money like that.Then me mum sent me out with the neighbor's boys to help dig the grave in the family plot."

He stopped for a moment, trying to remember the sequence of events.

"Anyway, we put him in the ground by that evening, in between his own da and a couple of my dead brothers. The babies, I think. Stephen would've been on the northside, if I recall correctly"-

He broke off, and looked back over at her a little sheepishly.

"Sorry. I wandered off the point there a little. But what I am getting at is this; I buried four brothers, two sisters, and my father before I was Turned. I understand grief, pet. I always have. I know how you miss your mum, Buffy. It's been over a century and I still miss mine."

She took that in. Spike with a Mother. Spike Had A Mother. Wow- weird concept. Then she thought about Angelus, and she had to know…

"How did she die, Spike?"

Her eyes told him what her words didn't spell out directly. And the accusation cut him to the quick.

"I'm not Angelus. I never have been,"

His tone was hard and cold, but he continued.

"My mother died in a housefire in 1890, along with my youngest sister, Emily."

She sagged in visible relief. 

"What about your other family members? What about yourother sisters?"

"I coughed up a respectable amount of money to settle on each of them."

His brow furrowed, and a moment of pain passed through his eyes.

"What? What are you thinking about?"

He shook his head.   
"Nothing. Nothing that matters now, anyway."

She could see how this whole conversation had unsettled him, and found herself reaching out for his hand. 

"What is it?" she pressed.

He sighed, and squeezed her hand.

"I don't like to think about them, Buffy. They're all gone. Long gone. I miss them. I couldn't be part of the family, you know,after I died. That was the hardest part, I think. ..Knowing they all grieved for me and missed me, and I could never go home to them. If Angelus had any idea where they were- I Knew his cruelty, I knew what he would do. And he was my Sire, he made me, raised me, trained me….He would have killed them outright, or might've tried to make me do it. I would've been hard pressed to do anything about it."

"What happened to them? Your sisters, I mean. The ones that lived. Did you ever see them again?"

"My sisters Letty and Polly went to London, for their first season. I'd amassed a nice fortune in my first decade, and I spent it all to buy them husbands. They thought it was a bequest I'd left them, when the money came. I hired a proper solicitor to handle it, so it all looked legit. And I watched them at their balls,from a distance. I never dared to approach them, But I watched. Watched as they snared the biggest prizes of the season….A Marquis and an Earl."

He smiled then, but the smile wasn't happy.

" Not bad for the daughters of a debt-ridden, baronet who died in disgrace."

"I think you did good by them , Spike," she offered softly.

He snorted.

"There's where you're wrong, Slayer…My ill-gotten gains bought 'em titles, husbands. But I 

wasn't there for them. Didn't see their children. Didn't know them, didn't see how their lives went…"

There was more to this tale, she was sure of it. Something he wasn't saying, something ugly.

"What happened to them, Spike?"

After a moments silence, when she'd decided to let the matter drop, he finally answered her.

"Polly's husband beat her to death when she gave him another daughter…The fifth, I think. Supposedly he went mad with disappointment and killed her by accident. Truth of the matter, though, was I think he wanted a new wife, one 'could give 'im an heir. Very practical."

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Letty didn't fare much better. Her Marquis turned out to have a thing for young boys. He shamed her til she could not show her face in public. She… she never had any children."

He said that last like it was tragic. 

She reached over to him, and held him. He buried his face in her hair.

"I'm sorry about your Mum, Buffy. Truly I am. If I could do anything to fix it I would. It's not right that it happened, It's not fair and it makes no goddamned sense. You still need her, Dawn still needs her, and it's all just Wrong."

She released him, pulling away and meeting his gaze.

"It's always wrong, Spike. It's just wrong to you now because you knew her."

She could see the wetness on his cheeks, and knew he'd been crying. 

"Slayer, You don't get it yet. You don't get it at all."

"Then help me understand."

He wrenched himself away from her, and stood up. 

"Buffy, It's not 'cos I "knew her". It's 'cos I loved her. I loved her, like I love you, like I love your sister… Your mum is the first person I've had to grieve for in hundred years! And so I'm doing it all wrong.I know that. But I don't bloody remember what I'm s'posed to do. And so help me, I hate it, Hate feeling this way, I hate hurting and watching you hurt and worrying about the Nibblet til it chokes me. It's wrong, I'm not supposed to have to feel these things!"

Buffy glanced at the clock. It was a quarter to ten. Maybe he was right. Maybe she'd feel better if she lay down.

She lay back on the bed, and he turned to look at her. She reached her hand out for him. 

"Come lay down with me."

He shrugged off the duster and crawled onto the comforter alongside her. She turned her back to him, and his heart sank. But then she scooted up against him, and he turned over, spooning her. 

"We'll get up in an hour or so and see if my head's any clearer," she announced. 

"Good girl," he said, throwing an arm around her and hugging her close.

He kissed the side of her neck, and whispered as she fell asleep.

"We'll find her, love. We'll find her and we'll keep her safe. I promise."


	8. Cordy

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #8 "Cordy"

AUTHOR: Nmissi  
PART: 8/?  
DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,   
what makes you think I'd share him with you?  
DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's   
going.  
Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com  
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

Opening the door to her apartment, Cordelia Chase addressed her remarks to the air.

"Dennis? This is Dawn. She's going to be visiting us today."

Then she turned to the girl. 

"Dawn, this is my apartment. Should you see any freaky stuff, such as things moving, turning on and off by themselves, don't get scared. My roomie is a ghost. And he's usually a perfect gentleman."

Dawn gave a strange look.

"Okay. Wiggy, but okay. ' Hi Dennis, nice to meet you'."

Somewhere in the apartment, soft music began to play.Cordy placed the McBags on the table and fetched plates and silverware from the drainboard on the counter. 

"I know you said you're not hungry, but I ordered two hotcake platters just in case."

She set the table, and prepared the cakes, drizzling her own liberally in maple syrup. Then she got a tub of Orange Juice from the fridge, and poured a glass for her guest. She got herself a cup of tea from the pot on the counter, and finally sat down at the table.

She just sat there, looking expectantly at Dawn. Finally the girl gave an annoyed "Humph" and slumped into the other chair, arms folded across her chest. She was the very picture of teenage obstinacy.

Cordy set about her breakfast, while the smell of food worked on Dawn to restore her appetite. As the older girl finished her plate, Dawn got started on hers.

"Well now- Good to see you've got your appetite back," said Cordy, as she took in the scene. Dawn was now scraping up the last of the syrup with the edge of her fork. 

" Your appetite, and maybe a couple other people's too. I thought you Summers girls were afraid of food."

Nary a crumb left in sight, she'd made good work of the plate.

"Nah. That's just Buffy. She's been on a diet since middle school."

Cordy loaded the dishes into the sink, and filled it with soapy water. She chucked a dishtowel at Dawn.

"Here. You dry."

The clatter of dishes was only interrupted by the occasional question and answer.

"Where do these go?"

"In the cabinet over your head."

Cordy wanted to console the girl, wanted to get her to talk about what was going on. But she was out of her depths. She'd never lost a parent, and couldn't imagine what she was supposed to say to Dawn. "I'm sorry" seemed lame beyond belief, and "It will get easier" was most likely a lie. So she distracted Dawn with normalcy, like eating breakfast and drying dishes. It was easier than the alternative. Sometimes, Demon slaying seemed so much easier than the real stuff. It was messy, sure. But human emotions were messier. 

"Where does this one go?"

Cordy looked up.

"Oh. It goes with the waffle iron. Bottom shelf, behind the cookie Jar."

Dawn looked around the counter top.

"What cookie jar? I don't see one."

"Umm. Big cow? With the bell?"

Dawn located it, and was helpless not to smile. It was total kitsch- tacky and cute at the same time. She had to know. She reached out a hand, and lifted the head.

"Mrroooo".

Her laughter startled them both. Cordy smiled at her.

"What's in it?" she asked.

"Snackwell's. Devil's food cookies. You can have one if you want."

Dawn reached in, feeling around the cow's belly, and came up with a cookie. She bit into it, as she laid the dishtowel onto the countertop. 

And then it hit her again. Like a punch to the gut it deprived her of air. The chocolate in her mouth tasted like cardboard, and she choked. Mom was dead. For a second, she'd forgotten, and was new all over again. Mom was dead.She was standing in a kitchen in L. A. chewing chocolate while her mother lay in the ground in Sunnydale Memorial Gardens. Mom liked chocolate. She would never split a box of Thin Mints with her mother ever again. 

Cordelia was pushing something into her hand. A glass of water. And she was whacking her on the back.

"St-stop. Stop it. Cordy, I'm fine," she said, catching her breath. She took a gulp of water. 

"I'm sorry. You were choking."

"I'm okay now. You can stop pounding on me."

Cordy stopped hitting her, shamefaced and uncomfortable. 

"I'm sorry. I didn't know what else to do right then. Did I- Did I hurt you?"

Dawn rubbed at her shoulder with her right hand, the glass of water still in her left. She must have dropped the cookie, she surmised.

"No, you didn't hurt me. I'm okay."

Cordy stepped back, and studied her.

"You were thinking about your mom, weren't you?"

Dawn nodded.

Cordy sighed.

"I really don't know what to say.I know I ought to say something comforting, uplifting and all that. But nothing's coming to mind except that I'm really, really sorry. And I liked your mom a lot."

"Thanks."

She thought for a moment. Thenshe brightened, and gave the girl a cheery grin. 

"Have you been to L. A. before?"

Dawn shrugged. 

"A few times. My dad lives here, you know."

"Oh. Well, I had some errands planned for today. Feel up to joining me on them?"

Dawn shook her head. 

"I don't know, Cordy, I'm not really in the mood"-

Her hostess would brook no argument.

"Come on! It'll be fun. We'll hit Rodeo Drive, do the shops. I'll even buy you something, okay? Maybe some shoes, or something?"

She was trying to be sympathetic. Dawn got that. In her own weird way, Cordy was hoping to comfort her with credit. The hopeful look in her brown eyes was impossible to refuse.

"Okay. Just for a few hours."

Cordy beamed. She'd done something right, she was sure of it. She'd get the girl out shopping and for a few hours, she might smile like she had done, in the kitchen there, for a few minutes. She'd smile and she'd forget she was supposed to be sad. And that would be enough.


	9. Conversation

TITLE: Darkest before dawn #9 "Conversation"

AUTHOR: Nmissi@aol.com

PART: 9/??

PAIRING: B/S

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing and no one. Especially not Spike. If I did,

what makes you think I would share him with you? 

DISTRIBUTION: Want it? Take it. Just let me know where it goes.

RATING: R, for sexual situations

SPOILERS:IWMTLY, The Body, pretty much everything else.

SUMMARY: The way the story would go, if I ran the Buffyverse.

He slipped his arm out from beneath her head, and gently lifted up off of the bed. He didn't want to wake her; he had the impression she hadn't been getting much sleep lately and this looked like a pretty deep slumber.

The alarm clock on the dresser said that it was 4:30. They'd slept most of the day. Spike worriedthen- He'd only meant to lay down about an hour, then start making calls. He'd missed some crucial hours in their search. It disturbed him. 

Wandering back into the living room, he located the telephone. A few minutes rummaging in one of the end tables produced a phone book, and so he settled onto the white couch to reach out to some contacts. 

He thought briefly of Angel, then decided to wait. If they needed him, they'd bring him in. But Spike's history with his Sire made the prospect uncomfortable. There was a decent chance Angel would just stake him on sight. Not merely for past injuries, (there was that whole nasty bit with the hired thug), but Spike was guessing Angel might not approve of his newfound closeness to Buffy. 

"Jealous Bugger." He thought, but with no real animosity. He was inclined to be pretty damn jealous at times too. 

"Hello, Lovely," he crooned into the phone.

On the other end, a demoness he'd been somewhat friendly with in the past vacillated between excitement and annoyance. She wasboth flattered he remembered her, and peeved he'd not called in two years. 

"Yeah, I'm sorry to wake you, I know it's an unseemly hour of the day…I'm in town on business.Yeah, It's great to hear your voice too... Listen, pet, I'm looking for a little girl. No, No! Nothing like that. Just a runaway. Name of Dawn. Long brown hair, big doe eyes… She probably hit town Wednesday last.Anyway, I know you get around... Lord love you, I miss those days too! But I thought you might keep an eye out tonight on the streets? Look for a new girl? Real young 'n innocent, like. 'Bout fifteen I'd say. It'd be an awesome favor to me, Lillith. Really…Okay... Love you too."

He rolled his eyes and made kisses into the phone, then he rang off.

"Insufferable creature. Bloody woman always talks too much."

But then, that was why he'd phoned her. Lillith knew everyone and in Los Angeles, and she had a predilection for young men. He knew she frequented the rebellious teen scene here;and hoped she'd hear about or catch sight of a fresh new runaway. 

He got up off of the couch, and went into the kitchen. His stomach rumbled oddly at him, and he realized he hadn't fed since early yesterday. A meal of butcher's blood at that. 

"Nasty stuff, that. Hmm. Wonder if there's anything to eat in here."

He hunted around the fridge, and came up with a steak, and some prissy alcoholic beverage that called itself Zima. It wasn't real beer, but it was alcohol, and it would suffice. He swigged off of it, while he heated up a skillet and prepared the steak. He seared it on both sides, leaving the center bloody. Then, armed with food and phone, he went back to work.

Several callslater, he still had no real leads. He'd called the shelters, but they wouldn't give him any information. He'd called a few more associates, but that didn't really go anywhere either. He was hesitant to give out any real information on his quarry, not wanting to place Dawn in additional danger. Thusly he gave people little to go on. He played briefly with the notion of contacting the police, then discarded the idea. If Hank Summers hadn't brought them in yet, he wasn't going to. Besides that, Spike innately distrusted law enforcement.

He checked the clock. She'd be up soon, surely, he thought. Then he picked up her god-awful purse from the coffee table. 

"Hideous thing, this," said he, as he contemplated the floral monstrosity. Where had she put them? He rooted around, under wallet, housekeys, makeup bag, toothbrush-

"toothbrush?" he queried, holding up the portable, in its own carry-case. Shaking his head, he tossed it back into the mix and kept looking. They were in here, he'd seen her put them back this morning…

"Aha!"

He clutched the box of smokes in his fist. Target acquired. He flipped the top up.

"ooh, very thoughtful. She bought a new pack."

He lit one, tossing the pack back into her purse, and the purse onto the couch beside him. 

Behind him, he heard footsteps, and caught her scent. She stumbled sleepily into the room, and collapsed onto the couch with him. Reaching between them, she took up the purse, and dug for the cigarettes. 

"Nasty habit you've acquired, love," he remarked, as she put the lit fag to her lips.

"I seem to have several of them these days."

He ignored that pointed reference to himself, and told her what he'd been doing. She listened attentively, nodding. 

"I think you're right. I don't think she's left the area. We should call Angel, get him involved"-

His brow wrinkled, and she dimly realized she'd hurt his feelings. She kicked herself- She should have thought about Spike's Sire Issues before she brought him out here.

"Spike, I don't have time for your macho bullshit. You and Angel? Work it Out. If you think I'm going to let you this up for me, you can"-

He interrupted her, shaking his head.

"It's not that. Well, okay, it is, but the whole Me-Angel thing, It's not why I don't want to involve him. Not that I'm exactly ebullient at the idea of a little family reunion"-

"Ebullient?" she asked

He sighed.

"What kind of education do you people get these days? It means Cheerful, Joyous…Not exactly how I'd describe my feelings about Angelus…But nevermind that. Buffy, Has it occurred to you that Angel might not know Dawn?"

There it was again. She kept forgetting that Dawn's origins were less than ordinary. He was right- Angel had never even seen her sister, didn't know she had one. All the memories she had of them together, Angel and Dawn- they were manufactured, and there was no guarantee Angel shared them. How far did the effects of the monk's spell reach? Did they go all the way to L.A.? Of course, Dad had known Dawn- But creating a "father" might be more vital than establishing a link to a sister's ex boyfriend. Without contacting Angel, she'd have no way of knowing. And if she called him, she'd have to explain all of it, the whole mess with Dawn. 

"I still think we should call him."

Spike looked away from her, and she could see the tension in him at the suggestion.She was momentarily annoyed at him for it. How dare he start this when she was already under so much stress? There was no formal "arrangement" between them- She knew he loved her, but he knew she didn't return those feelings. How dare he start this jealousy crap?

She opened her mouth to go off on him, but he was dialing the phone, so she held her tongue and waited to pounce.

He listened, then made a face, and hit off. Then he redialed. After a minute he turned to her again.

"Number's been changed. Do you have a newer one?"

Her confusion was evident.

"What number?"

"For Peaches, Slayer. I'm getting a "your call cannot be completed as dialed." Do you have another?"

"Let me try." 

She wrenched the phone out of his hands, and he made a face at her. 

After a few tries, she turned to him, and caught the smug look in his eyes. 

It didn't improve her mood.

"Damn you."

He lifted his eyebrow and gave her his best innocent look.

"What? S' not my fault he didn't give you the new number."

"Maybe not, but do you have to stand there gloating about it?"

He dropped the act.

"Sorry, Slayer. I didn't think about how it might have hurt your feelings."

She sank back down onto the couch.

"It did hurt my feelings. But worse than the hurt-feelings stuff, is finding out that I can still HAVE hurt feelings about it. It seems so petty and stupid, but it bothers me that it bothers me."

He watched her a moment, scrutinizing.

"What? What are you looking at me like that for?"

"I'm just thinking."

"About what?"

He looked a little embarrassed.

"I'm trying to figure out whether this is one of the times I'm expected to hug you and be all comforting-like, or if it's one of the times I'm supposed to provoke you and let you hit me in the face."

She looked up at him, astonished.

"Is that how you see it?"

"See what?"

"Us?"

He waited a beat, then softly he said,

"I thought you said there is no "us"."

She was silent.

"I'm sorry about that. About saying that. I- I hurt you, andI really didn't mean to. It's just"-

He came back to her side, then, and cut her words off with his hand. Her eyes above his hand were startled.

"Ssh. Don't say it. Don't say anything unless you're sure and you mean it. Whatever it is, for better or worse, you really can't take it back later."

He released her, and she stayed silent.

"Now then. Shouldn't we be getting ready to hit the streets? It's almost full dark. I had a thought, maybe we'd go in and out of the club scene, where the kids hang. If she's messed up, trying to escape her problems, she might be doing it there."

His unspoken allegations played in her head. "Messed Up". Escaping her problems. She pictured Dawn with the blood running down her arms, onto the linoleum. And wondered if there were worse to come. She could be "escaping" into anything. Drugs, sex, liquor…Kids did it all the time. 

She noted with irony the ash falling from her cigarette. 

She nodded, and Spike headed down the hall.

"Where's the loo?"

"Huh?"

"The loo, pet- The bloody bathroom. I smell like a brewery, I need a shower."

He looked her over. 

"You could use one too, I think."

"It's the second door on the left, off the master bedroom. Um… Do you have extra clothes, or are you just gonna put those back on?"

She said this, gesturing disdainfully at his apparel with her nose wrinkled up.

"Well, yeah, I was." 

He saw disapproval in her blue eyes, and continued.

"But if you could nip out to the car for me, I've got a bag in the trunk. Might be something wearable in it."

She nodded, and he was suddenly glad he hadn't returned the stuff to the Gap yet. Suddenly his embarrassing new wardrobe idea had new merit.

"Where are the keys?"

"He fished in his pants pocket,and tossed them to her. She made her way out the door.


	10. Revelation

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #10 "Revelation"

AUTHOR: Nmissi  
PART: 10/?  
DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,   
what makes you think I'd share him with you?  
DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's   
going.  
Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com  
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

She stared out into an assortment of demonic visages, seeking reassurance. But the light was in her eyes, and she couldn't quite make out Angel's face at the table, so she settled her eyes on a fixed point, and steeled her nerves. She'd chosen her music for its comforting familiarity. It was one of her mother's favorite songs. But facing a roomful of inhuman creatures, she was made to wonder-

Had anybody ever sang Crystal Gayle in here before?

Her voice warbled and trembled, and in places it broke. But the song came differently for her now, than it normally did. She'd sang it last, when her mother was still alive. The tears were falling freely now, but they did not stop her voice. She sang the words like she meant them; she was truly "Ready for the times to get better."

She sang the last words, and waited for the music to stop. Then she descended the steps from the stage, feeling weak and woozy. Suddenly arms were there, and a green skinned demon with horns collected her in them as she went down.

"Clear back, everybody, clear back.Just a little post-traumatic stage fright. Nothing to be concerned about."

She came around, and saw him again. The ugly green guy. He was gazing at her with such compassion- Suddenly he was jostled out of the way and his kindly face was replaced with Angel's own, rather troubled one.

"Dawn? Dawn? Can you hear me?"

To the Demon he asked,

"What's wrong with her? She sang, what happened?"

The host smiled disarmingly and shrugged. 

"It's nothing- Just nerves. I don't guess our Dawn is accustomed to singing in front of people."

Turning back to her he continued, 

"Lovely performance, by the way, sweetheart. I was very moved."

It was true; he'd been dabbing at his eyes through the whole song, and tear-tracks had stained his cheeks.

"Did it work?" She asked.

"Let's get you off the floor before we talk, okay, honey?"

Together the host and the Vampire lifted her under her arms, and helped her to walk.

"Here, let's take her to my office. Vision-girl, get her a glass of water at the bar; there's a good girl."

They got her into a lush room behind the bar, and laid her down on a small sofa along the wall. 

She sat up, and Cordy shoved another glass of water in her hand.

"-Knew I should have made her eat something. We did Rodeo Drive from morning to night, and all she ate was burrito at taco bell- I should have known this would happen, I'm a terrible-"  
Dawn cut off the distraught Cordelia.

"I'm okay, Cordy. Honest. I just have this thing about crowds. I'm sorry."

She realized Angel was timing her pulse, and she shoved his hand off her wrist.

"God, Angel- Overprotective, much? Gees. I fainted. No Big. Happens to all kinds of people."

She drank the water, and looked up at the host. He was watching her with those big sad eyes, full of empathy and kindness. She took a deep breath.

"So. What did you see?"

He smiled at her again, and his flip tone belied his serious words.

"Well, I saw that you're about the cutest little warped portal I ever did see- Even in that atrocious Tommy Hilfiger Sweatshirt."

He shot Cordelia a harsh look.

Angel cut in.

"So, is it true? What she believes, is it, well- Real?"

His voice was sharp and desperate. He didn't want to believe her, she realized. He'd rather she were crazy than correct. 

The host looked back at him.

"Well, if you're asking is she the-key-turned- pretty-human-girlie, I'd have to give you a great big YES-"

It was Dawn's turn to interrupt now.

"That was just Angel's question, I already knew that. What I want to know is if I can get my mother back. Can you tell that by reading my soul? If what the monks did, I can do too, so I can bring Mom back?"

It was back again, that horrible look of pain and sympathy. It made her stomach turn over, made her want to wretch.

He placed a hand upon her shoulder.

"If it could be done, it would be a very bad thing, honey. Your mom- Her soul is gone on. You could bring back her body, or create a new one- But she wouldn't be in it."

"But why wasn't it Bad when it was done to make me? Wh"-

He looked away, but not in time. Not in time for Dawn to miss the look of hesitancy, the tight lip and clenched jaw.

She moaned.

"Oh God. Oh God. It WAS a bad thing, wasn't it?"

She started to cry, and Angel moved in to hold her, but she slapped him away again. 

"Am I- Am I a demon?"

The nice green man took her hand gently in his own.

"No, honey."

"Well, do I have a soul?"

His gentle voice and soft smile soothed her, for a moment.

"I had to read it, didn't I?"

"Then why am I bad?" she wailed. 

"Oh, no, honey, You're not bad. What was done to create you,"

His face twisted in a vulgar sneer.

"That was the evil."

She watched his face carefully.

"What did they do?"

He squeezed her hand, and searched her eyes with his own.

"Do you really want to know that, Dawn? It's not pleasant."

She nodded.

" I need to."

He sighed, and let go her hand.  
"They needed a body. Somehow or other they got hold of one. I saw it, when you sang- Your mother. They needed flesh of her flesh, to create a daughter."

Oh God. Oh God. She was almost afraid to ask-

"Did I kill my mom?"

He was alarmed, and eager to assuage her fears.

"No! No, sweetie, that's not what I meant. My Goodness, no!"

His voice dropped, as he tried to explain it in a way that would not further damage her, but would convince her of the horror that he'd scene in her "birth". 

"Dawn, your mother- She must have had another child at some point, Not your older sister, but another one. A baby. A- a stillbirth or a miscarriage."

He paused to let his words sink in.

"Your monks violated it, desecrated it."

He tensed, his fists clenched.

"Then they compounded their wickedness by trapping you inside of it. They put a divinity into a mortal shell, and made it human."

She didn't understand.

"A divinity?"

He smiled at her again, and took her hand once more.

"Yes, honey. You're a little goddess."


	11. Distractions

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #11 Distractions NC17!!!

AUTHOR: Nmissi  
PART: 11/?

RATING: this part NC17 for SMUT.   
DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,   
what makes you think I'd share him with you?  
DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's   
going.  
Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com  
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

She could hear the phone ringing as she raced back through it, shopping bag in hand. She chucked the bag at the couch and made a grab for the receiver.

"Hello?" 

"Buffy? Hi honey. Did I catch you at a bad time?"

She relaxed. It wasn't Dawn, but Dad would make a decent substitute right now.

"No. I was in the hallway, had to hurry to get inside before you could hang up," she puffed. She'd also taken the stairs rather than the elevator, but she didn't think she needed to tell him that.

"Oh. That's good, I guess…Have you heard from your sister yet?"

She shook her head no, then realized he couldn't hear that.

"Uh- No. No, I haven't. But we're about to head out, do some more looking."

In the background, she could hear her father's secretary.

"Hank? Hank, get off the phone."

Then she heard some more, but nothing she could make out. 

"Dad? Is that- Is that Her?"

Her father's voice altered, becoming apologetic and embarrassed.

"Well, yes, Buffy. I told you I was in London on business"-

"And business means you have her in your hotel room at night?"

"It's not nighttime here, precious-"

But that voice was there, in the background. In tones too intimate to be businesslike, she was urging him to get off of the phone and come back to bed.

"You know what Dad? I really don't have time for this right now. You- You have fun. Go do - whatever you do with her. I have to go be a parent and stuff. Sorry."

She hung up on him with great satisfaction. That, That WOMAN. She was why Dad was in London, instead of at home looking for his missing daughter.

She still couldn't bring herself to even utter the tramp's name.

"No wonder Dawn took off," she muttered.

Buffy ran her hands through her hair, and trembling with rage, she fetched herself a cigarette from her purse. Smoking, and swearing, she started going through Spike's shopping bag.

The Gap clothes. She remembered this blue shirt from that night at the Bronze, when he'd tried to sit with her and she'd shined him off. It was a pretty blue silk, and as she folded it and laid it on the couch, she realized it matched his eyes.

She paired it not with the khakis, but with a pair of black silk pants at the bottom of the bag. They still had the tags on them. As she tugged off the plastic clip and the paper tag, she noticed the receipt sticking out of the front pocket. She reached for it, drew it out.

She whistled.

"Wowzers. Way to spend Money, honey." 

He'd bought a jacket, four shirts, three pairs of pants, a tie, a package of boxers, and three pairs of socks, for a grand total of 475.59. Then she realized what was so strange about this. 

Not the clothes, necessarily. Even the undead get a makeover every now and then.

No, the punchline was that the receipt was clipped to a credit card slip, signed by William Walthrop. 

Buffy paused to wonder if he'd ever bought anything before in his entire unlife. 

Smoothing out the outfit, she laid the black tie across it.

Hmm. Her cigarette was almost gone. She'd been flicking ashes into a saucer, but her eyes lit upon that tacky vase on the mantel. 

Definitely not her mother's taste, that piece.

She walked over to it and viciously stubbed out the cigarette inside.

"How dare he be with her, over there, while I'm here all alone."

She spoke aloud, to no one but herself, but in her mind she continued.

"How can he be doing that to her while the mother of his children is dead?"

She could hear the shower running in the apartment. Instantly the Buffybrain began supplying her with all sorts of images she really did not need right now. She could see the Ho. The Tramp. "That WOMAN", as Mom always decorously called her. She could see her with Dad, here in this apartment, screwing him…

On that couch. On that table. She pictured his massive bed, clad in vulgar sheets, and that woman writhing underneath her DADDY. 

The shower- She could hear the shower.

She could see them in it, imagine all sorts of lewd things that WOMAN was doing with her father.

Buffy wasn't really aware of it when she stripped off her shirt. Or kicked off her shoes. By the time she reached the bathroom door, she was naked. She didn't allow herself to think about where she was going, what she was doing, or to see the symbolism inherent in what she'd planned.

It had occurred to her that she needed to distract herself with something. The cigarette hadn't done it. The careful preparing of Spike's clothes hadn't done it. But Spike himself- now there was a distraction a girl could get into. 

She thought about his body- His hard cold hands, how they'd felt upon her skin. She pictured him, pale and lean and powerful, under the spray of the water.

She tipped the door open slightly, and peered in. 

He was lit behind the frosted glass, his back to her. She could see the smooth planes of his back, his beautiful shoulders, the curve of his ass.

She slipped into the bathroom, the steam making everything seem somehow less real as she approached the glass door, and slid it back.

He jumped, startled. And she saw what he'd been doing, and felt herself grow wet, and hot. 

"Damnit Buffy, Can't you bloody knock!"

She'd caught him in a most private moment. He was erect and hard, held in his fist. He was also livid; mortified….

She put her fingers to his mouth.

"Ssh."

She stepped into the shower and for a second, he was unsure if he was somehow stuck in the fantasy he'd been having. She brought her lips to his jaw, kissing along its hard line, as she stroked his lips with her left forefinger.

With her right hand she reached for him, below.

He sucked her forefinger into his mouth and she gasped. She stroked him, and kissed his jaw. She followed its line all the way to his ear, then she nipped his earlobe and he bit her thumb.

Their mouths collided, bruising lips. She grasped his shaft hard, squeezing at the base. He responded by cupping her breast, fondling it gently, then giving the nipple a vicious tweak. She began stroking him, in time and rhythm to bring him off. He tried to pull away.

"No. No, Buffy, stop."

She returned to his mouth, kissing him til he had no words. When she pulled away, he opened his eyes in time to see her settle on her knees, in the water before him.

"Buffy, you don't-"  
She took him in her mouth and he decided to shut the hell up.

Buffy was finding Spike an excellent distraction. She concentrated upon the feel of his flesh against her fingers, the taste of him in her mouth. Vigorously she suckled his length, caressing him with her tongue, rubbing the head of his cock with the muscles of her throat. She could feel him pulsing in her throat as she buried her face in his dark curls. She was aware of him above her, his hands on her shoulders, trying to pull her up-

"Buffy, love- Get up…."

His voice was harsh, strained. He was close and she knew it. He wanted to pull her to her feet, but she was determined to finish him, lost in his taste and the texture of his skin.

Fiercely she seized his hips in her hands and shoved him against the shower door. His fingers were bruising her shoulders as he tried to lift her.

She was too strong for him. Her head bobbed and he released her shoulders, instead seizing her by the hair.

"Slayer, I'm going to- Ah Hell it is NOT MY FAULT."

She clawed his ass with her nails, and took him all the way into her mouth again, swallowing hard.

The friction and the tightness was too much to bear. He came in her mouth, hard, screaming her name and clutching fistfuls of blonde hair. She kept suckling and swallowing as he shook and held onto her for support.

Finally, she pulled back and let him slip from between her lips. He was leaning against the shower door again, holding onto the bar. He was panting, his blue eyes wide and impossibly dark, deep. She stood and turned away from him, grasping the soap and the wash cloth he'd used. Fascinated, he watched her lather up: first arms, breasts, and belly; then moving southward. 

She was a siren, and she would lead him to his doom. He was hard again already, just watching her. She turned her back to him, to put the soap back in the soapdish.

He seized her hips and pulled her against him roughly. He pressed a kiss against her throat, and his cock against her rear.

"This what you want, Slayer?"

She murmered something unintelligible, some sound that was need and want without proper words.

He reached under her arms and grabbed her breasts, hefting the small globes in each hand. He flicked his thumbs over her nipples. One hand traveled down to massage her pleasure center.

She moaned deep in her throat, and thrust her ass back against him.

"I asked you a question, girl. I will have a proper answer… Is this what you want?"

There was no mistaking what "this" was, she reflected, as she felt his hardness digging into her flesh.

"Yes. Oh Yes. Oh Please-"

He turned her around, switching their places, and placed her hands over the bar on the shower door. His hands over hers, he wrapped them around the bar, and kissed the side of her face. He released her hands and stepped into the narrow space behind her. With one hand he caressed her flank, angling her forward so she was bent slightly. 

Then he slipped his hand lower, dipping into her damp center. Gently, he angled a finger upwards, inside of her. She gripped it tightly, and he patted her rump with his other hand.

"That's a good girl. Nice and tight, love. Just about perfect, you are…"

He thrust his finger inside her, and then added one, and another. He looked over her shoulder, at the knuckles still wrapped tightly around the bar. Her hands were shaking with need, but she did not let go. He allowed himself to marvel at her newfound obedient streak.

He withdrew his fingers and she whimpered. He brought the wet fingers to her lips, his hand bent to shield her fluids from the shower. His fingers teased her mouth, and she opened it, taking his hand between her lips and suckling. 

"Delicious, aren't you pet?"

She groaned hopelessly and ground her hips against him in frustration. He laughed.

"Ooh, aren't we the impatient one?"

With that, he parted her legs and rammed himself home. She shrieked, bucking up against him, and he seized her around the waist. She was still holding the bar, he noticed. 

"Very good, Buffy. You're still minding me well."

She gripped the bar tighter, and he lifted her torso up, straightening her, so that her back was against his chest. His lips against her ear, he murmured to her.

"Lovely, slayer. Lovely. I wish you could see yourself like this. All flushed, and hot, and needy. You're beautiful, Buffy. Beatiful. I could live inside you like this, forever…"

But then he pulled out of her and turned off the water.

"Spike?" 

She was all confusion and heat. She let go the door and turned to him.

He slid the door open and stepped out. 

"Did I do something-" there was a question in her voice. But he answered it by scooping her into his arms and carrying her out of the bathroom.

The confusion and disappointment was wearing off; now she was just plain mad.

"What are you doing!? Where are we going?!"

He tossed her unceremoniously onto the great ugly bed in her father's bedroom. She sat up on her elbows, incredulous.

"I did not tell you that you could stop."

He laughed at her imperiousness. She was adorable, naked and wet on the ugly red velvet bedspead, full of righteous indignation and stifled need.

He grinned.

"You really were out of it, weren't you, love?"

She eyed him with distrust.

"What do you mean?"

He leaped onto the bed alongside her.

"The water went cold, love."

She leaned back against the pillows.

"Oh. Well that's different then."

He mocked her with a turn of his eyebrow.

"It's different then, is it?"

She looked him over again. He really was beautiful. Somehow she'd never really paid attention to that fact before. But she could drown in those blue eyes, could watch his hands for hours. 

Said hands were back at work, making certain the cold water did no permanent damage to his ardor.

She knew the sight should repulse her. He was kneeling on the bed before her…jerkingoff. That's what they called it, she knew.

But she'd never seen anyone do it before. And she was strangely fascinated.

He gave her a cocky grin.

"This do it for you, then?"

She parted her lips to give him a snarky reply, but just then an idea seized her. She smiled at him, mischievously, and lolled her head back onto the pillow. She splayed her knees apart and stretched, reaching her hands above her head.

She noted with pleasure his immediate response to the view. She put a finger in her mouth, as his strokes came faster. She trailed the moist finger down her chest, playing with her nipples, and then reached between her thighs…

He lunged for her, tackling her to the mattress, his control broken. She gazed at him in triumph as he buried himself inside her. He was magnificent, his glorious white blonde hair sticking up all over, the veins standing out in his neck. He rode her like a thoroughbred, and she gloried in it, every muscle tuned to his rhythm. 

Finally he pressed his forehead against hers, seeking reassurance in her gaze. It was an unspoken question, but she gave her assent and he gasped her name as he filled her up inside. She screamed her release, squeezing him tightly. Then she leaned her head back and begged silently for the penetration of his teeth.

He shifted above her, his beautiful face becoming beautifully hideous as he lowered his lips to her throat. His teeth broke the skin, and she came again, harder this time, weeping his name, tracing her fingers along his uneven brow.

"Buffy?"

"Hmm?" 

"Did you forget we have to go?"

Dawn. Oh shit. For a few minutes there, she'd forgotten all about Dawn. Buffy was ashamed and horrified.

"Damn it. Get off me, Spike. I have to get dressed."


	12. Encounter

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #12 Encounter

AUTHOR: Nmissi  
PART: 12/?  
DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,   
what makes you think I'd share him with you?  
DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's   
going.  
Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com  
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

Angel carried the drink carefully across the room to the table alongside the stage. The bartender had sprigged it with a cherry, and an umbrella, but somehow it still screamed "Shirley Temple". A girlie glass, filled with pink, for a smidgen of a girl. 

Said girl sat quietly at a table alongside the stage. Cordelia was chattering at her, full of cheery smiles and affection, but Angel could see Dawn was just barely following the conversation. She was still very shaken up from the incident earlier this evening, and he'd have liked nothing better than to send her home right now. But the gang were here for a twofold reason. They were expecting a contact in regards to an investigation underway. Bringing Dawn had been Angel's inspiration- He had held out great hope that the Host could offer Dawn some guidance. 

"Here you go- One cherry seven up, straight up with a twist."

He was grinning broadly, but Dawn just looked at him like he was stupid.

"Nevermind. Here, just drink it."

He shoved the glass at her and she accepted.

"Angel- Over there, look!"

Cordy's whisper was a touch too dramatic…then again, it usually was. He turned his head towards the bar.

"Interesting."

He got up, and Cordy put her hand on his arm. Worry creased her forehead, and Angel forced himself to stop and give her his best reassuring smile.

"It's okay, Cordelia, I'm just going to talk to him." 

The look in his eyes sharpened, and he continued.

"I oughtta see about his truck."

With that, he walked off, and left Cordy standing there with her hand out, perplexed.

"Okay. That made NO sense." 

She plopped back into the chair, and looked over at her charge.

"You hungry? They have bbq wings."

She felt naked, even dressed in all these layers.

The exposed bite mark was the problem, she knew. It felt raw, hypersensitive- As if it picked up shifts in temperature and changes in air current around her. Her hands sought it out- She kept trailing her fingers over it, unconsciously.

She should never have let him talk her into uncovering it.

"Quit playing with it, Slayer."

She elbowed his rib.

"Watch your mouth, "Billy", or you'll ruin the whole damn disguise."

It was camouflage, he'd explained. It would make her untouchable, invisible, inside the demon bars. Two scars and a healing bite wound said to the world quite loudly, "I am some Vampire's Ho."

That, she figured, was the problem. She rather felt like one.

The way she'd gone after him earlier- Her face flushed at the memory. She was ashamed of herself. Her behaviour had been wanton, lewd- exhilarating and shameful. She wanted to do it again, and was terrified she might. 

He put his hands on her waist, and pulled her against him.

"Dance with me."

"Sp- Billy, we don't have time-"

His mouth next to her ear, he whispered.

"We're too noticeable just standin' about."

He moved his head back, and met her gaze. 

"Besides- I'm good enough to fuck, but not good enough to dance with?"

His voice was teasing, but still she heard the faint undertone of hurt in it. She'd wounded his pride, again. 

She wrapped her arms around his neck,and her breath caught at the closeness. The feel of him against her, his scent- they overwhelmed her senses.

He moved tight against her, easing her through the crowded dance floor.

"D'you see him yet?"

She shook her head no, struggling to pay attention to their surroundings. He grumbled under his breath.

"Poncy bugger never could stay where 'e's s'posed to."

They'd been in and out of clubs all night, talking to people and showing Dawn's picture.

Spike had faxed it out to the homeless shelters and youth organizations that afternoon, but they'd had no response yet. Buffy was losing hope. It was as if Dawn had walked out of the Apartment complex and vanished.

In a dive a couple blocks away someone had i.d.'edSpike, and tried to pick a fight with him by taunting him with Angel. The unintentional "tip" had led them here, to a karaoke bar full of demon customers.

Buffy was certain that Angel could help them find Dawn. Spike was less enthusiastic, but she knew much of his hesitation stemmed from ordinary male jealousy. 

She had loved Angel- and probably still did.

And Spike loved her.

It was an unholy mess, guaranteed to break hearts and bust heads, eventually.

Buffy did not love Spike. But she liked him. She trusted him in ways she had trusted no one else before. It made no sense and filled her with trepidation. What did it all mean? 

She wanted him. That was uncomfortable to admit, but she did. And the sex was amazing. He was her drug of choice, her new favorite vice. It had never been this way before, not with anyone.

That thought scared her most of all. She was capable of complete surrender with Spike, letting down all barriers, trusting him utterly. 

But she didn't love him. 

She admired him, she enjoyed his company- 

She caught a glimpse of his profile beside her and her breath caught in her throat.

-she adored his body. She could be honest enough now to admit that. She was fascinated with the shape of his mouth, the length of his fingers, the hollow of his hip.

But he was bad; he was wicked.

She worried that might be why she liked him so well.

Angel leaned in close behind the unsuspecting mortal.

"Hello Lindsay," he crooned.

Lindsay's head shot up from his beer bottle, looking into the mirror behind the bar. He smiled serenely at his lone reflection.

"Hello Angel," he drawled, lifting up his bottle in mock-salute. 

"Shouldn't you be, oh, I don't know- someplace ripping off widows, stealing from orphans-"

Lindsay swiveled on the barstool.

"Nope." 

He swigged on the bottle a moment, then wiped his mouth on his coatsleeve.

"Sorry to say it, but I'm just fresh out."

Angel seized him by the lapels, lifting him up slightly.

"I don't think you ought to frequent this establishment anymore, Lindsay. They don't cater to your type."

Still hanging from Angel's meaty fist, Lindsay grinned drunkenly, and slurred his words.

"Oh, I don't know about that." 

He gestured with his short arm, indicating the room.

"Looks like the place's just FULL of monsters."

Angel shoved him back into the seat. For some reason, the boy always provoked him, made him lose his temper. It had been a long time since anyone enraged him quite like Lindsay did, and he distinctly disliked the feeling.

Stolidly he gritted his teeth.

"Finish your beer, and the Get Out. Don't come here again. Stay away from my crew, and me."

The boy raised his eyebrows, insolently.

"Or you'll what?"

There was a hollowness in his expression, a void inside him, that reminded Angel of his own. He responded to it involuntarily, stepping away from him. Truly, Lindsay was not afraid of him. Lindsay was afraid of nothing.

Lindsay didn't care anymore.

It intrigued parts of Angel that he had always been certain belonged to Angelus. Irritated, he tamped down the unsavory emotions, and with a vampire's quickness, he had the carkeys out of Lindsay's hand.

He addressed himself to the bartender.

"My friend here's had a wee bit too much to drink. Call him a cab for me?" He put his best efforts into the act, all phony camaraderie as he slung the other arm around Lindsay's shoulders. He pulled him in just a little too tight, just a little too close, and squeezed his neck hard with his fist. The pain failed to move the boy, who just sat there.

Then Angel caught a familiar scent in the air, and his night took another downturn. 

"What the"-

He tossed a twenty at the bartender on the phone, and pocketed the truck keys. He made his way out into the throng of dancers, following blood and memories as sharp as glass.

In the middle of the room, he saw him. White blonde hair, tousled and damp, caught the lights. Underneath them he danced. His form was grace personified, and Angel was reminded just how beautiful his descendants always were. 

His back was to his grandsire, but Angel knew his own. Spike had come here. Spike was in the City of Angels, and his time had run out.

He approached him through the dancers, and came to a stop right behind him.

He made his voice hard and derisive, his mouth curled in a sneer.

"William."

Spike turned around, and then he saw who his boy was dancing with. 

"Buffy?"


	13. Skirmish

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #13 "Skirmish"

AUTHOR: Nmissi  
PART: 13/?  
DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,   
what makes you think I'd share him with you?  
DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's   
going.  
Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com  
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

"Buffy?"

There was hurt and confusion in Angel's voice.

"What are you doing here?"

"We came here looking for you, Angel."

He eyed Spike warily, and the blonde nodded.

"Yeah, Peaches," he smiled cynically, "we did."

Buffy noticed the stiffness of Spike's posture, and winced. He was feeling threatened, and pretty soon Angel would be feeling all betrayed…

It boded badly for the rest of the evening.

Angel's eyes traveled over Buffy, taking in every detail. Her lovely hair, her sweet mouth..

When his eyes reached her neck, she remembered the bite mark and drew her breath in sharply. His mouth turned into a hard line and he looked over at Spike.

Spike was always very observant. He was aware the exact moment his Sire put two and two together and got 'lovebites'. 

Oh, that's very helpful, thought Buffy. Spike's stance had shifted. He had stepped back into her personal space, as if to shield her from Angel's gaze. His body language implied everything she didn't really want Angel to know about. 

"Oh, great. Listen, Guys- Can we Not Do This Here?"

Too late, she sighed, as she watched Spike's head roll back with Angel's punch. He recovered, and launched himself at his foe, tackling him backward into a table.

"Guys? Uh- Not a good time for this, really…"

She felt the urge to enter the fray, and took her nice coat off to protect it. Then she asked herself, 

"Why should I?"

She really couldn't come up with a very good reason. No matter what they would claim, this was So Not About Her.

She shouted over at them.

"You know what? Go right ahead, spray the room down in testosterone. You two work it out."

She watched them struggle across the room, into the crowd. Angel flipped Spike over a chair. Spike picked it up and threw it at him. They came together again with fists flying, rolling into a pillar and dislodging the poster hanging on it.

"What a really ugly poster," she thought.

They butted heads, and rolled around a bit, each gaining and losing ground by turns. They seemed evenly matched in strength and fighting ability. But while they were pretty much beating the shit out of each other, no killing blows were being struck. 

Neither one had even tried to fashion a makeshift stake.

To no one in particular, Buffy remarked.

"This really is none of my business."

She righted one of the chairs they'd knocked over, and sat down in it. Then, she dug through her purse and lit up a cigarette. 

"Not my problem," she breathed, smoke swirling before her. She watched the crowd, moving apart, giving the brawl space. 

Ooh, Goody…they were coming back this way again. She leaned back in her seat, smoking, and trying to decide how to score this spectacle. Angel had it all over Spike what with the tossing him around, knocking him into walls, she decided. But Spike got points for his creativity and ability to improvise. He moved like a dancer, slyly stepping out of his Sire's reach again and again. When Angel slammed him into furniture, Spike kept a hold of him and usually followed through with his feet, or his knees, or a handy piece of tableware. He was a master at incorporating environment into the combat.

They rolled up pretty much at her feet, Spike on the bottom, Angel looming above with his fist in the air. She put a booted foot down on Spike's chest, and gave them both a scathing glare, flicking her ash down upon them.

" Umm. Guys? Next time, let's do this with Mud or Jell-O."

There was a green skinned guy in a nice Armani suit headed this way, and he looked mad. On his heels were Wesley and a brawny black guy Spike reckoned was a bouncer. Then he turned his head at the sound of Buffy's voice, and was surprised to see her shoe on him.

Oh hell. She did not look happy.

And Angel was getting damned heavy.

"Peaches, you great tub of lard- get off of me."

He shoved impotently at the tree trunk of a chest before him. 

"Off. Off. She's angry enough already."

Angel's rage was wearing off. Funny how a couple dozen really good blows to the head will do that, he reflected. His eyes fell back upon his errant boy, squirming underneath him. Blood trailed from his mouth and forehead. But his eyes glittered with an excitement that matched Angel's own. It had been a while since he'd enjoyed a fight this much.

He backed off of Spike, wiping the blood from his own mouth as he stood. Buffy rose, and finally Spike, getting slowly to his feet and warily taking in the scene.

"Damn. We messed the place up a bit."

He said this with a trace of pride, but Buffy glowered at him and his smile wilted. He found a nice spot on the bloody floor tile to contemplate soberly.

The green guy walked up to them.

"Is this the way you treat all your friends, Angel?" He was smiling, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. He sighed dramatically. "Or is this conduct reserved especially for me? If you objected to my decorating scheme so badly, you could have just written me a check."

His glance swept Spike, and he smiled more genuinely.

"I suppose you must be the favorite! The last time he had relatives in town, he set them on fire."

Spike scowled and spit blood on the floor. 

"'E's no relation of mine."

The host eyed the bloody spittle, nose wrinkled.

"Well, he's handsome enough, I suppose, but really, Angel. In a centuries' time, did you never teach your children any manners?"

He glanced around the room, at the destruction; the customers huddled in the corners or fleeing out into the street.

"Then again, maybe he just takes after you."

Angel had the decency to look shamefaced.

"I'm sorry. And I'll cover all the damages for tonight, you have my word."

Buffy watched the green guy snigger.

"I think I'd really rather have your bankbook. But I suppose I'll have to take you at your word for now. Why don't you collect your friends and family members and take this little reunion somewhere else,"

He sighed glumly.

"Before you ruin the rest of my evening."

He tilted his head suddenly as if listening for something, and then very sadly, continued.

"Too late for that now, I see."

Gunfire rang out from four directions, and Buffy recognized the warm whizzing sound of a crossbow bolt. It buried itself low into Angel's left shoulder.

Several things happened then all at once.

People screamed. The host ducked to the floor, and went under a table. Buffy dropped beside Angel, and he tried to free himself from the protruding projectile. Spike grabbed them both, one with each hand, and dragged them out of the brightly lit center, into the darker corner of the bar.

"Angel? Angel?" Buffy's voice was frantic. He grabbed her hand with his and tried to reassure her.

Spike was casing the room, from behind the cover of an overgrown potted plant.

He hollered over his shoulder to them.

"There's what look to be policemen, and some guys in nice suits, with guns. And that black-haired chippie what brought the crossbow. Ah hell"- he broke off, and she saw him dash out from behind the plant.

Idiot vampire. What the hell did he think he was doing?

Oh.

He came back around, and with him was Wesley. Between them dangled a handsome young black man, bleeding from his neck and shoulders.

She crawled over to them on her hands and knees.

"Buffy!? What're you doing her?"

"Never mind that now." She put her hands on the injured man,helping to drag him over beside Angel. 

"Gunshot in the neck, he can't talk, and he might be having difficulty breathing"-

Wesley was babbling. Irritated, the blonde vampire shoved him over at Angel.

"Get the bolt out. Where's the bint?"

"What?"  
"The bint- Long legs, dark hair- mightily annoying? Well you're here," he pointed at Wesley, 

"He's here," with this he pointed at Angel. "Where is she?" 

His mouth twisted into a smarmy smile.

"Or did I interrupt a romantic evening the pairo' you had planned just for yourselves?"

Wesley was staunching the blood over the wound, now, glaring at Spike before him.

"Gunn, Cordy, Angel, and I were waiting for a contact." Suddenly his face blanched. 

"Dawn!"

Buffy looked up, terrified.

"What do you mean, 'Dawn'? Is she here? Is she with you?"

He nodded vigorously. Angel was coming back around, trying to sit up.

He saw Gunn beside him.

"Gunn? Wesley, how bad is he?"  
Buffy struggled to lay him back down.

"Shut up."

Turning back to Wesley she continued.

"Where's my sister?"

"Bloody hell! What is she doing?"

Spike was gone again.

"Dawn was sitting with Cordelia when the fight began."

Buffy was torn. Her baby sister was out there, in that room somewhere, defenseless. All her instincts told her to move, to go find her and protect her. But the man she loved was splayed out in the floor beside her, bleeding. A few inches lower and he'd have been dusty. Part of her wanted to stay here and protect him, comfort him, cuddle him.

Wesley went into Watcher Mode.

"There are at least fifteen men. Humans, by the look of them. They have semi-automatic weapons. There's also a woman with them, but I didn't get much of a look at her. She's the one toting the 'bow."

He was digging into the pockets of his jackets, and her eyes widened as he thrust a gun at her. 

" Nine millimeter browning high power. There's one in the chamber."

It felt huge in her hands. 

Then it hit her. Spike. Spike was out there looking for Dawn. And his opponents were human; he couldn't hit them. 

He was defenseless.

She kissed Angel on the top of the head, and crawled out into the room on her belly, the gun inside her waistband digging into her flesh.

There was still intermittent gunfire overhead, but most everyone had the same idea she did. She looked left to right, seeing humans and demons alike hiding under tables, behind chairs. She saw several wounded, and at least one body she didn't think would be getting up again. 

Laughter above her. 

"Don't think I got 'im. He's not in this bunch."

There was a man less than a foot away, turning over dead bodies.

Buffy dropped flat and held her breath, playing "Dead".

He moved on and she inhaled. 

Slowly, she crept. The lights were back up, which made it that much more difficult

She'd reached the far side of the room now, and was losing hope. They could be anywhere. And the killers were still walking about, shooting whatever they saw move. But she'd seen nothing of the woman yet. 

A foot sticking out from behind a speaker looked awfully, horribly familiar. It was wearing her shoes.

She crept over, and got a good look behind the speaker.

Dawn lay crumpled like a broken doll. Cordelia knelt beside her, bloody. Behind her knelt Spike, his hand over her mouth, as he hissed at her.

"Shut up! Shut up! Damnit, I'm here to HELP you!" 

But she struggled against him with a strength born of terror. Buffy crawled to them, and felt for a pulse on Dawn. It was weak, thready. Her sister was pale, and there was a pool of blood spreading underneath her.

"Shot in the back, Slayer," said Spike, still holding Cordy.

"We have to get her out of here."

She put her face before the terrified brunette.

"Cordy, listen to me. You have to be very quiet. The killers are still out there."

The fear in Cordy's eyes told Buffy she was more worried about the killer back here.

"Spike's going to let go of you, and uncover your mouth. Don't make noise or you'll get us all killed."

She gave him a look and he did as she said, slowly.

Cordy pulled away from him as far as she could, whispering frantically to Buffy.

"Angel? Where's Angel? I saw them shoot him"-

"Ssh. He's okay, he's going to be okay."

Buffy stroked her friend's hair comfortingly. 

"He's over by the bar with Wesley and your other friend."

Spike was turning her sister over, gently, examining the wound.

"Entry but no exit wound." 

His face was hard, grim; his eyes wet with unshed tears.

He looked up at her, and his face softened, his voice became gentler.

"Buffy, we 'ave to get her to hospital."

He slid his arms under the child, and lifted her in them. Buffy met his eyes, and understood. She had to clear them a path, it was their only way out. She pulled the gun out of her clothes and saw the approval shine in Spike's eyes. 

She had decent cover here. And it couldn't be that hard to hit a target this close. She only wished they'd line up together- She had one gun, and they had dozens, semi-automatics at that. 

Vampires, Robots, Demonic Critters from Outer Space- She could handle those things. But for some reason armed human thugs scared the pee out of her. 

Spike was speaking again, telling Cordy where the car was in the parking lot, but then he surprised Buffy.

"Here. Take the nibblet."

He took the gun and slid her unconscious sister into her arms.

"But-But… Spike, they're human."

His mouth twisted, and he looked uncomfortable.

"I know."

He slunk out into the room, and she watched him in horror and fascination.

He managed to get behind the nearest pair of men easily. They were engaged in a ghastly practice- staking the survivors. She puzzled as to why anyone would be staking humans- an impractical form of attack when they had the guns.

Spike twisted the neck of the taller man, catching his body as it fell. He relieved it of its automatic weapon, and fired Wesley's gun into the back of the other one's head. Then he turned, spraying the room in gunfire. Anyone standing was game. 

They returned fire, but in a few minutes it was all over. They made there way across the room, calling to Wesley. 

He was on a cell phone with the police, reporting the incident. 

"Yes, "Caritas"…it's a private nightclub on"-

Cordy rushed over to Angel, who had recovered sufficiently enough to be carrying Gunn in his arms like a baby.

"How is he?" She traced her fingers across his dark forehead lovingly. 

"He'll be better when they close up those holes in his trachea."

Spike joined them, studying Angel.

"You still unliving, then, eh Peaches?"

Angel smirked at him.

"If I didn't know better, boy, I'd think you were worried about me."

In the stress of the moment Spike lacked for a sufficiently snarky reply. He settled for a simple one.

"Sod off."

He turned back to Buffy, bringing up the rear with Dawn in her arms. There was blood all over her now, so much blood. Human blood. For all the irregularity of her origins, Dawn was human. And humans can die.

He reached for her, taking her from Buffy.

"We need to GO now, Slayer. She needs help."

Together the lot of them trouped out of the building, into the night. They were halfway to the car by the time they heard sirens.

"Should we wait for them?" asked Cordelia.

Buffy flashed on the paramedics in her living room; Smell of sweat, and chemicals, sound of their radio bleating.

"No. We'll take her in the car. Angel, can you get him in yours?"

"Yes."

"Good."

Spike was conferring with Wesley about directions, having laid Dawn out in the backseat. 

"Right then. We'll meet you there." 

He climbed into the car, and Buffy got in beside him. Cordelia looked between both vehicles, obviously torn, butthen she got in the back with the unconscious girl.

Spike pushed the ancient car for all it was worth. Buffy noticed the needle hovering around eighty, but she said nothing. Instead she reached across the seat, and put her hand on his approvingly.

"We'll get there in time."

He looked back over at her, and hoped she was right.


	14. Waiting

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #14 "waiting"

AUTHOR: Nmissi  
PART: 14/?  
DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,   
what makes you think I'd share him with you?  
DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's   
going.  
Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com  
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

The muted rose walls and comfortable furniture were a thin façade; underneath, sharp smells of disinfectant and the hum of machinery reminded everyone present that this was in fact a hospital. 

Buffy and Angel stood together by the window, silently. Cordelia sat alongside Wesley with her head on his shoulder; she had long since dozed off.

Spike paced the length of the room, back and forth between the windows. 

"She'll be alright, Buffy. They'll get the bullet out and she'll be just fine."

Angel gave her his warmest smile and a reassuring squeeze.Spike glared at him, angry.

How dare he put false hope in her heart? The nibblet had a bullet imbedded in her spine. Even once they got it out, there was a likelihood of complications. 

He thought back to his own experience with a wheelchair. 

"Please don't let it come to that," he thought.

"I'm gonna go get a smoke," he remarked to no one in particular. Digging through Buffy's purse, he retrieved his cigarettes and left.

Buffy spoke.

"Are you going to be here awhile?"

Angel's wounded expression made her feel bad for having asked.

"Of course."

She tiptoed up to kiss his cheek.

"I'll be back in a minute."

His brow creased with worry, and he tried to stop her.

"Buffy, I don't think"-

She dismissed him with forced cheeriness.

"Be right back."

And she was gone. 

He saw her coming through the glass doors at the front of the building, out into the cold towards him. Fear hit him like a punch to the stomach, and he withdrew the fag from between his lips. He hadn't really hoped she'd follow him out here. Or maybe something had happened-

"What is it? The nibblet out of surgery already?"

She shook her head no, reaching for the lit fag in his hand. He passed it to her, and watched her bring it to her lips, pursing them around the filter, drawing the smoke into her mouth.

"Lucky cigarette", he thought, to be between those soft lips.

"No, nothing's changed upstairs."

She was talking about Dawn, but his gut told him there was more to it than that. Nothing had changed- Angel was up there, Angel was the one she loved, and Angel was the one she'd been clinging to every since they got here.

But then what was she doing downstairs with him?

They shared the cigarette in the cool night air, the light from the streetlamp bathing them in a blue haze. 

She'd been crying when they got here, silent crying, not the kind that made her gasp and hiccough. Angel had taken her into his big arms, let her bury her face in his massive chest, and comforted her.

Spike had talked to the doctors, talked to the policemen, and filled out the forms.

"Have you called Giles yet?" he asked her between breaths of nicotine.

She shook her head.

"I'm waiting til she's out of surgery. No sense worrying Giles about it yet. He couldn't get here anyway, not til tomorrow."

She was probably right.

"Any news on the other fellow?"

"Not since you left."

They stood in silence, and he lit another fag.

Unspoken feelings hung heavy in the air between them. He was hurt and angry. She resented his pain, resented him imposing it on her at a time like this. They were both terrified for the child upstairs in the operating room. 

Yet they didn't discuss any of it. 

"You haven't fed yet. Do you need to get something to eat?" 

He shook his head at her and Buffy grew worried. She couldn't remember the last time he'd fed.

"Are you hungry? You want to get something to eat?"

She looked back at him, contemplating his question. She'd had little or no appetite since her mother died. That fact manifested itself in her hollow cheeks and ill-fitted clothing.

"Not really."

He considered her for a minute.

"No, you need to eat. C'mon, we'll go get sandwiches and take them upstairs. Cordelia and Wussly might appreciate the thought."

He stubbed out the cigarette and she followed him back into the building. 

Upstairs, Angel sat alone in a chair in the waiting room. Wesley and Cordelia slept across from him in the silence.

He thought about them, downstairs, and knew a gnawing hollow antipathy inside. Oh, he was quite sure they weren't DOING anything- not with Dawn lying on an operating table in there. But the fact that she was WITH him, that she had let him-

Angel couldn't even bring himself to think about it without feeling Angelus-like rage stir within. He'd done the right thing; he'd let her go so that she could have a "normal life", one that included marriage and kids, a life with a future.

What she'd done with that sacrifice mocked it. She'd gone into the arms of his childe, she'd bedded a soulless demon.

It made him feel less like the love of her life, and more like just one of her "Type"…How special could he be to her, if she'd gone off with another vampire? It tarnished the sanctity of their entire relationship. It made him think less of her. 

And Spike. He wasn't sure how he felt about his childe, anymore, and that scared him badly. There had been a strange sense of comfort in being on the same side again, even if this time they'd both been fighting the good fight. And whatever was going on between his childe and his ex-lover, he didn't doubt Spike's affection for Buffy.

It was evident in the way he looked at her, the way he touched her. Spike was in love with the mortal Buffy Summers, and apparently doted on her mortal baby sister.

And the gentle way he'd cradled that poor child in his arms, her blood staining his clothes- For a minute Angel had loved him again, the way Angelus once loved William. There was beauty in Spike, a darkly sensual amor fati; no matter where he was, or what he was doing, his boy was triumphant. William was beautiful in his suffering, beautiful in his anger, beautiful in his passions. He'd never had that kind of vibrancy in himself, andhe missed it. He had missed it for so long. It was hard to face the emotions he'd had as Angelus; they frightened, and sometimes repulsed him. But this had been a year for getting in touch with his darker self. At times, the past was so close to the surface he could almost touch it. Darla had been an unpleasant instance of that- but it was like touching a reflection on the surface of water;his hands hit it and rendered it inscrutable. It was hard for Angel to accept that Angelus had been blessed with some things he as Angel himself lacked. Among those blessings had been his childer. Angel had friends, but he had no family. Occasionally he was just plain lonely. And for a few minutes tonight, he hadn't been. It galled him. 

They came back into the waiting room.

"Hello Peaches."

Spike's hands were full with sandwiches, chips. Buffy held a row of cokes along one arm.

She thrust one at him, offering. He gave her an odd look and she pulled her hand back.

"Told you 'e wouldn't eat anything." Spike said.

She ignored him and sat the food onto the table before the couch, atop some magazines.

She sat on the other couch, facing away from the window towards where Cordy and Wesley slept. 

The sharp crack of a pop tab was loud in the room, as Spike sucked on a Dr. Pepper. 

"Slayer, you need to eat something. You 'aven't had anything to eat since we got here."

She rolled her eyes at him.

"I told you I'm just not hungry, Spike."

He ripped open an egg Salad sandwich and sat down beside her.

"Here. Split it with me."

She sighed and took it, biting off one corner of the triangle.

"Happy? Damn thing tastes like cardboard."

"Yeah, I am. Now finish it." 

He worked on his half, and then tore open some Fritos. She made a face at him, and he crunched them loudly. 

Angel leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. It was getting close to morning, and they were all still sitting around in their blood-splattered clothes. A couple nurses had offered them scrubs, but there'd been no takers. 

An man in blue scrubs came out into the waiting room.

"Excuse me…are any of you here with Mr. Gunn?"  
Angel's head shot up, eyes open.

"We are. How is he?"

Cordy and Wesley untangled themselves upon the sofa.

"Can we see him yet?" Cordelia asked.

"He's still asleep. He'll rest for some time yet- Anesthetics work that way," the doctor said, smiling.

" But he should be fine.It'll be a few days before he starts to recover his voice, but he's a very lucky man. Two bullets in the neck, and neither one damaged his spinal cord."

" A nurse was going to bring you some forms…Do any of you know the name of his primary insurer?"

Angel stood up, and stopped Cordelia from rising.

"I'll go take care of this."

He turned to the doctor.

"Can anyone go into the room with him yet?"

"I don't see why not."

"Good. Cordy, I'll take care of the insurance forms- why don't you and Wesley go sit with him until he wakes up?"

He moved close to Cordelia, and dropped his voice.

"It's getting close to sunrise, so"-

She nodded, putting her hand on his arm. 

"You go. We'll handle things here. And we'll call you as soon as we know anything."

Her eyes drifted over to Buffy and Spike, eating on the other side of the room.

"Anything. Okay, Angel?"

He nodded and hugged her.

Then he went over to the others.

"The sun is coming up soon, so.."

He let the sentence hang. It was not quite an invitation, but his childe knew it for what it was.

"S'okay, "Dad". I have someplace to sleep."

His tone was suggestively lewd. Angel sucked in dead air and fought not to rise to the bait.

"You go on home, Angel. Here." 

She scrounged in that monster purse for a pen and piece of paper.

"This is the number for Anya's cell phone. I've got it with me right now. I'd offer to call you when Dawn get out of surgery but you've changed your number."

He tried to ignore the pointed tone of the comment as he accepted a phone number written on a gum wrapper. Buffy stood up, and embraced him. He squeezed her middle, and kissed the top of her head.

"I love you," he said, his eyes meeting Spike's above her.

"Love you too, Angel," she said. Behind her Spike rolled his eyes and burped loudly.

He let her go, and went to deal with mundane details like primary carriers and co-payments.

Now alone in the waiting room, Spike and Buffy waited.

"Do you think"- she began.

"No." he answered, following her train of thought by the look of horror in her eyes.

"Little bit's tougher than that. She'll pull through, right as rain. Didn't you hear Cordelia? Your baby sister's a Goddess."

His tone was light and reassuring. But his words gave her an idea.

Quickly she was back in her purse, pulling out the cell phone.

He was perplexed by her actions.

"Who're you calling, Slayer?"

She ignored him, her hand over her non-phone ear. She waited to hear the machine pick up.

"Ben? Ben, You better not be working third shift at the hospital tonight... Pick up, Ben. It's Buffy. I need your help. Something…something's happened to Dawn."


	15. Prayer

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #15 "Prayer"

AUTHOR: Nmissi  
PART: 15/?  
DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,   
what makes you think I'd share him with you?  
DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's   
going.  
Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com  
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

She looked deceptively healthy lying in the bed. Her skin had pinked up with transfusions, and the drugs in her IV kept her in an unnatural sleep that looked restful. She was Sleeping Beauty, reclining amid green blankets. The only light present was above and behind her, bathing her in its iridescent glow, like a spotlight.

Next to the bed, the machinery beeped and whirred, marking time. In a chair alongside of her sat the vampire, head slumped forward into his hands. He wore her blood like a souvenir, marking his clothes with her scent, her humanity. 

It was close to sunrise, but he had not left. Instead he'd pulled one of the chairs in the room over as far from the window as he could, and had not moved from that spot in hours.

Across the room, under the window, Buffy slept. A nurse had her brought pillows, a blanket. Spike had rejected the offer of these amenities. 

He was too busy castigating himself to care if the room was chill, or the chair uncomfortable. He slept in a Crypt, for chrissakes; he wasn't some soft human. And he wished to God all the nurses would quit looking at him the way they did. Their sad, soft looks, their gentle voices…They all thought it sweet, his devotion to the little girl. It was a sick joke.

He wanted to shout at them, to seize them by their stubby necks and shake them til their big doe eyes rolled back in their skulls. He neither needed nor wanted their sympathies.

While he'd been dancing with her sister, his head full of filthy thoughts; while he was brawling on the floor with his grandsire, someone had been readying the weapon that fired the bullet that hit the Nibblet. 

He thought of Joyce, and for the first time, he was glad she wasn't alive to see this.He wondered if she could see them up there, wherever "Heaven" was, and was ashamed of himself. He'd failed her. The one person in a century to treat him like a human being, the first person to care about him since he died- and he'd repaid her trust, her faith in him, so badly.

He'd been thinking with his dick and his wounded pride, and he'd let her baby get shot in the back.

Buffy stirred, waking to the early morning gloom.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"Seven something."

She sat up, shucking off the thin hospital blankets. 

"Ben should be here by two o'clock, if his shift ended on time."

He regarded her doubtfully. 

"How d'you even know 'e's coming?"

She looked out the window, her thoughts elsewhere.

"He'll come. It's Dawn- He'll come."

Spike shrugged.   
"Whatever. Don't know what good another doctor'll do, though."

He looked hopelessly at the figure in the bed.

"Is he some sort of specialist or something?"

Buffy stood up, stretching. The blood had dried her clothes stiff, and her shirt moved oddly with her. 

"No. He's not a specialist."

She looked at him again, walking over to the bed.

"Spike, how much do you remember about the night I brought you home from Glory's?"

He shuddered involuntarily when he heard the name, and a panicked tightness began in his chest.

He struggled to answer her without looking as frightened as he felt.

"Not much, love; I was rather unconscious for most of it."

She stood across from him now, stroking Dawn's cheek with her hand. Her eyes raised up to meet his, as she explained further.

"Ben is special, Spike. He's- Well, he's sort of Glory's brother."

His stomach turned over, and it felt like a living thing was trying to claw its way out of his throat. He gasped for breath he didn't need.

"You're bringing that mad twit's BROTHER here? Oh My God. Buffy, are you DAFT? What if he tells her about Bite size, what if he-"

She soothed him in soft, reassuring tones.

"Spike, He helped me get you and the Bot into the car that night. He helped get us out of her house. Believe me, no one wants Glory gone more than Ben does."

He stilled his nerves. Relax, Spike, Relax. The Slayer is a bright girl, she knows what she's doing. 

"I still don't understand, slayer- So the bitch Goddess has a brother- what's he going to do for the Nibblet?"

She reached across the bed, taking his hand in hers. 

"Well, the way he explains it, Glory's is a Goddess of the moon, she inflicts Moon madness- she makes people crazy. But Ben, he's a God of Healing. That's why he works as a doctor, here in our world- He can heal people. I'm going to see if he can heal Dawn."

She took in their disarray, and finally noticed what they smelled like.

"Spike, maybe we should go home, get changed, before he gets here."

He finally realized they still looked like they'd been to a charnel house. His vampiric senses should have been repulsed by the scents of drying blood, rancid beer, and gunpowder residue. But only now that she pointed these things out to him, did he notice them.

"I'll go move the car around, into the garage." 

They were parked out on the street, in the daylight. At least the garage was dark, it should afford him some protection.

"Give me about fifteen minutes, then come downstairs. I'll try to park by the elevators."

He flipped her his carkeys wordlessly, and watched her leave.

He was alone now, with the girl.

His mind raced through images of her, as he'd known her in her short life. Laughing in her mother's kitchen, needling him while they broke into the magic shop. He could see her eyes, round like saucers, as he told her his stories and scared the bejesus out of her. 

He remembered the confusion and anguish in her eyes when she'd come to tell him about Joyce, and his heart hurt.

Long, thin fingers dug through his hair, finally meeting in his lap where he twisted them, wringing them nervously in his lap. Joyce. It always came back to Joyce. 

She should be here. If she were alive, this would never have happened, the Nibblet would have been safe at home, snug in her bedroom, instead of in a Los Angeles bar depending upon the protection of Monsters. 

It had been over a hundred years since last he'd felt the urge to pray, to anything. But this morning, in a hospital room in the city of Angels, William Walthrop, Spike the Vampire, bowed his head and stumbled over his words.

"Er. A-hem. You up there- Whoever you are. This is Spike. Umm, William, Walthrop. We haven't talked in a good long while."

He broke off his impromptu prayer and wished for the days of rosary beads and rote recitation. It had been a damn sight easier than this.

" Listen, I know you don't owe me a damn thing, evil sonofabitch that I am. I'm not one of your creatures and I haven't been for a long time. And I have no right to come asking you for favors."

He looked at the child on the bed, her dark hair spread like a silk curtain beneath her, so young, so lovely. The sight of her emboldened his nerve, and he continued.

" But She's innocent, Lord. She's good and sweet and her sister needs her. I need her. Okay, scratch that- My needs aren't exactly your problem anymore. But little bit here, she's special. Not just because she's some sort of supernatural entity. Like you give a bloodydamn about that, anyway.But because she's a wonderful girl, God. She's got such potential… I want to see what she grows up to be, want to see what she can do for the rest of the damn world. It'd be tragic if you take her out of it, really. S'not like humanity's got all that much going for it anyway, why d'you want to take the best ones? I mean, you already took Joyce. Wasn't that enough?"

The sun light was filtering in through the window, and outside he could hear the noise of the street. The world went on outside, but for him, the world stopped inside this room.

" So I'm making a one-time offer, here. You give her back to us, whole and healthy, and I'll do anything you ask me to. Anything you want. You want me to take a noonday stroll? Done. Go vegetarian? No problem. I'll live on cowblood til I dry up and blow away. You want me to go all poofy, don the cape and hairgel and go work for Angel? In a second. Just don't take her away, God, please. Don't take her, and don't punish her any more."

He was weeping now that there was no one to hide it from. Just God, well, and maybe Joyce, but she'd seen it before. He prayed with a fervor his mortal self had never known, prayed with human desperation and human love. And hope came to him, amid his fevered promises,beating in his breast like a heartbeat.

He was too busy praying to notice it was his own.


	16. See You NC17

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #16 "See you" NC17

AUTHOR: Nmissi  
PART: 16/?  
DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,   
what makes you think I'd share him with you?  
DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's   
going.  
Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com  
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

Ben had not come at two o'clock. Eventually Buffy had called the hospital, and they now expected him to arrive sometime tomorrow, along with Giles. Even gods were constrained by last-minute shift scheduling, and airline delays. 

Buffy had finally called her father at six that evening, and Hank was taking the first flight out of Heathrow tomorrow night. In the meantime, Buffy kept her vigil at Dawn's bedside, watching, waiting.

The surgeon's had induced the coma to protect her after the surgery. She had major swelling around the spinal cord, and there was some question as to how much feeling she might have retained. But that would be an unknown until she woke up tomorrow. 

Spike watched Buffy from his chair. She could feel his eyes on her face, studying it. A month ago she'd have found it freaky; now it was comforting. He loved her. Amid the rushing waves of despair that kept threatening her, he was something to cling to, so she didn't go under.

She knew she was using him. She also knew he didn't much mind.

"It's getting late, Slayer." 

She looked up at him, exhaustion in her eyes.

"I know, I know. I just- I don't like the idea of leaving her alone, Spike."

He put a hand on her shoulder. His voice was gentle, but firm.

"She won't be awake until tomorrow, pet. And I don't really think you can go another night sleeping in that chair." 

He rubbed the back of his neck.

"I bloody well know I can't."

Damn. She hadn't given his comfort a thought. She knew she was tired, and her back hurt, but she'd not thought that a vampire might become physically tired doing the sickbed ritual. It was strange, because she led such a physical life- but this sitting here hopelessly was draining. It made her bone weary. But she'd never thought it could affect him the same way.She'd never even thought to ask him if he wanted to go somewhere else, if he was tired, or 

She startled. 

"Spike, when did you eat last?"

He sighed. 

"When we split the egg sandwich earlier, love. Remember?"

"That's not what I meant."

His eyes widened.

"Dunno. Guess it was yesterday." 

She grabbed her purse and his coat, and leaned across her sister.

"We'll be back in the morning, punkinbelly,"

She kissed her forehead, and smoothed her hair.

"I love you."

She stepped back, and Spike stepped up to the bedside.

His voice suffused with affection, he squeezed her little hand in his larger one and spoke to her.

"Good night, Nibblet. Dream sweet, love."

Then they headed out. 

The loud crack as he slammed the car door did little for her brittle nerves.

"Damn it, Spike. I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry. Look, It's not my fault they don't sell it at the Food Lion."

He was being unreasonable, and he knew it. But they'd been to three groceries, and not a single butcher would sell them a container of blood. They'd received weird looks, and a few suggestions to enquire elsewhere. Two other grocers had even lacked a butcher on staff; hiring their meat delivered prepackaged, and one would presume, pre-drained at some remote location. 

He supposed Life On the Hellmouth had spoiled him; blood was sold right there in the refrigerator case alongside matching containers of organ meats.

She waited for him now at the elevator door, and he grudgingly hefted three plastic grocery sacks from the trunk. 

At least there were weetabix in one of them, Spike consoled himself.

She tapped her foot at him and flicked ashes into an empty coke can, carried in her other hand. It'd been her excuse for why she didn't need to carry grocery sacks. 

He began to regret ever picking her up in the car that night. Since then, he'd been beaten up, shot at, cried on, bled on, starved…

And the worst indignity of all- the bitch kept stealing his smokes. 

"Come ON, 'William'."

He told himself he was NOT hurrying, however much it looked like it. 

He joined her, and together they went up.

"I really am sorry, Spike."

He rolled his eyes at her.

"Yeah, right, you're really sorry I won't be running out to kill m'self something to eat."

"You're whining. It's not attractive."

He ignored her. Funny thing was, until she'd pointed out how long it'd been since he'd eaten, he hadn't really been very hungry. Only when she brought it to his attention, did he begin to feel weakness and hunger.

She'd been talking, but he'd missed some of it. 

"Besides, you'll get mine later- You'd think you could be a little bit more grateful about it."

She was seriously offering to feed him?

He'd bitten her yesterday, that was true. But he'd not fed from her. He couldn't bring himself to do so, it was too much like the first time, when she'd pleaded for it, and he'd been able to feel her, wanting it, wanting him to drain her dry. 

It had been as if she'd wanted him to kill her. And the thought of it, of her being that close to the edge, was no turn on. 

They entered the apartment, and Buffy got the lights, while he trudged into the kitchen with the groceries.

"I'm going to get a bath and go to bed," she remarked, watching him heat up the stove.

His voice was terse.

"No, you're not. You're going to eat one of these things." 

He flipped a steak into the skillet atop the melting butter pat, then added another alongside it.

"I'm too tired to eat. And we have to be back at the hospital pretty early. If I don't get in the tub now, I won't feel like it in the morning."

He turned those blue eyes on her, and there was pain in them. Oh, damn, she'd hurt his feelings again.

"I'm a decent cook, Slayer. The least you could do is try it."

She gave up. She was too tired to worry about ruffling his feathers. It'd just be easier to eat with him, so she sighed loudly and fetched plates from the cabinet, while he dragged out the bagged salad and tossed it with some mayonnaise. 

They ate together in silence, their thoughts elsewhere. Then Buffy rinsed the plates in the sink. When she'd finished, she realized she was alone in the kitchen.

Silently she trod the hallway, looking for him. 

She found him stretched out in the red bed, his pale white flesh a stark contrast to the hideous carmine sheets. His back was to her, and he appeared to be sleeping already. Soundlessly she stripped out of her clothes, folding them neatly over a chair. Then she stepped around to his side of the bed, and collected his things, folding them neatly as well, and stacking them alongside her own. 

There were pajamas in her bag, but she didn't want them. Even if nothing happened in this bed, she wanted the comfort of his skin against hers. She slipped in beside him, and pressed herself against his back, encircling him with her arms. He was oddly warm to the touch, and she snuggled her cheek against his shoulder blade, and rested one hand against his stomach.

He shifted, turning over, blinking blearily in the dim light of the room. She'd forgotten to turn out the light across the hall, she realized. 

"Hello, Cutie."

His smile was playful, if a bit drowsy. She nestled her head against his shoulder, and he took her into his arms, holding her against him. She could feel other parts of him waking up, and suddenly she was not nearly as sleepy as she'd thought she was. 

She brought her lips to his collarbone, kissing lightly. Her tongue darted out to taste the salt on his skin. His head dipped, and he caught her mouth with his, kissing her deeply.

"Thought you were tired," he whispered in her ear.

"I was," she responded. Then she kissed him again, and pressed her breasts against his chest.

He flipped her onto her back , and grinned down at her.

"I'll see what I can do about that; maybe wear you out a little."

Her eyes lit up with a dark fire.

"Ooh. Promise?" she breathed. 

He brought his mouth back to hers, kissing her breathless. Then he trailed his kisses down over her collarbones, and up to her ear. He nipped her earlobe in his teeth, and moved his hands back to her breasts, caressing, tugging, pinching the nipples gently. He kissed back to her neck, teasing her with his teeth. Then he worked his way lower, and took one breast in his hand roughly, the other in his mouth.

She felt moisture between her thighs, as her body readied itself for him.

He moved lower, and she gasped. His mouth on her stomach, his kisses soft and whispering, he spoke to her, his voice shaking, his tone guttural.

"I want to taste you, Love. You're going to melt in my mouth."

He slid even lower, and she felt his hands on her thighs, so close, so close to the aching, pulsing center of her. She was dripping for him, desperate for his touch. Then she felt his kiss, close and intimate, feather light on her soft hair. He gripped her thighs in his hands, pushing them apart, shoving them upward. Her feet were flat on the bed, when he slid his hands under her ass and pulled her hard against his mouth. 

He was devouring her, and she adored it. She was afire with need for him now, breathing faster, and hungry for more.She had no other thought but him; his hands, his teeth, his tongue. 

Her hands clenched the sheets of the bed, as his lips worked their magic on her most intimate flesh. His tongue was deep within her walls, his fingers circling the nub of her pleasure. She was an easy conquest to this brutally sensual assault. He brought her to the pinnacle, only to slow her and begin again anew. As she became more frantic, her moans became screams, her demands and pleas merely incoherent sounds of desperate want. 

He shoved a pillow beneath her hips, but his mouth never abandoned her. The angle deepened his kiss, and his fingers stroked somewhere inside her, some place she'd never known. She threw her head back against the headboard and the pillows, opening her eyes in the dark, as she screamed her release. Dimly she was aware she could see in the ceiling, and the sight was lewd, and beautiful, and thrilling. She could see her own body, flushed with heat and want, her breasts heaving. Between her legs she could see his blonde hair, sticking up all over with sweat, as he played her with his mouth. His shoulders were between her thighs, and his hands left red marks on her hips where he held her tightly.

But it was not over. He continued the onslaught, fraying her nerves and destroying all her control.He brought her off again, and again, and left her quivering and shaking.

Then he was dragging himself up her body, claiming her mouth with his. She could taste herself inside his kiss. She felt him enter her body, deep and hard, pounding her with an agonizing thoroughness.

She shoved his head roughly to one side, opening her eyes and finding them again in the ceiling. She watched his buttocks thrust against her, and her legs grip his hips. He ground against her and she rose to meet him, over and over, gradually quickening their movements. 

They came together this time, and she watched it, watched him sag against her breast as she bit down on his shoulder and screamed his name.

Their breathing came shallow and fast, as they recouped. Even so, it was some minutes before Buffy collected herself enough to speak.

"Spike?"

Her voice was soft, tentative. He mumbled something into her shoulder, and she prodded him. 

"Spike!"

He raised his head, annoyed with her.

"What?"

"Turn over," she said.

He rolled onto his back, and scooted up against her side, sharing her pillow. 

"Spike!" 

"What?" 

Now he was really irked. He'd done a good job, he had. She should be fast asleep by now. What was it with women wanting to talk afterwards, anyway? Didn't the silly bints realize how much Work they were to Please? A bloke deserves to rest after such a performance, why didn't she get that?

"Spike, look up. Please, just look up."

Something in her voice gave him pause. She wasn't looking at him, she was looking straight up. And her eyes held wonderment.

He looked, his eyes searching the blackness. After a moment he found them, above. He could see Buffy, her blonde hair glinting amid the dark bedding,her skin a pale luminescence. And beside her he could see himself, his white-blonde hair almost touching hers, his white skin reflecting in the gloom. 

For the first time in over a century he could see himself.

She rolled to place her arm over him, and kissed the side of his face. He watched her do it in the mirrored ceiling tiles they hadn't noticed yesterday afternoon. He watched as she pulled the bed sheets off of them, exposing their forms completely.

"I can see you in the mirror, Spike. I can see you in the mirror."

She was crying again, but she was laughing too. He brought his hand up before his face, and waved it around. He waved at himself, and the mirror self waved back. 

He sat up sharply, pulling away from her bizarre giggle.

"Bloody hell! What is going on here?"

He raced into the bathroom across the hall, and flipped the light switch.

In the mirror, he saw himself. 

It'd been so long, he couldn't quite remember William Walthrop's image. But he was pretty sure it didn't look that much like this one. 

A hand rose up in the mirror, to touch the bleached spikes. They were wet with perspiration, askew. Beneath themwere a strong forehead, and fine dark eyebrows. The eyebrows set off bright blue eyes, which were currently quite round. 

He had strong cheekbones, and firm lips, the lower one just a little too full. He opened his mouth and saw a fairly decent set of teeth, considering their age, and the era of his birth. 

Suddenly she was behind him in the frame, and he turned around to look at her.

She'd stopped with the insane laughter bit. Now she was just grinning inanely. 

"Stop it. Stop it"-

"Do you see, Spike? Do you see? In the mirror?"

"Yeah, Slayer, I see it. What I don't see is WHY I can see it."

She giggled very loudly.

"Maybe I boinkedyour soul back…"

He looked at her like she was batty, which, well, she was acting. She was laughing again, but tears crept out the corners of her eyes, and she kept talking.

Rambling like an idiot, going on about Angelus now, she kept at him. He knew the urge to strangle her, if only to stop the disastrous flow of her words. She was talking about souls, miracles, and redemption; standing naked in the little pink bathroom with his seed leaking down her legs. It was pathetic and ridiculous. Her arrogance was repulsive to him; how could she stand there talking like this ? It wasn't enough that she didn't love him, now she had to "save" him as well?

"Look, you stupid Bint, It's not a bloody miracle. I don't know what the hell it is, But it's not anything like that. I don't believe in Miracles."

But didn't he? Didn't he believe enough to be on his knees not six hours ago in a hospital room?

Oh God, now it was his laugh that sounded mad. And she was sort of cringing back from him, and starting to look scared. 

Suddenly he seized her by her shoulders, and brought her neck to his mouth. He tore her skin with dull human teeth, and the blood pouring into his mouth was not an elixir, it was just blood; Salt and copper, nothing remotely erotic or divine.

He wrenched his head away from her and fell to his knees, vomiting the stolen liquid onto the tile floor.

He could feel her hands on him again, at his back, and he realized she was trying to lift him up. He went with her, without resistance. 

She pulled him against her, holding him close, soothing him wordlessly with her warmth and her presence. She pressed her head to his chest, hugging him.

The thumping under her cheek was fierce, and fast. He was frightened, and she could hear it in his heartbeat. She pushed her lips against the flesh over that hammering heart, and kissed the scar. His hands reached around her, clutching at her like a child. She guided him back to the bed, and held him as he shook.


	17. Father

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #17 "Father"

AUTHOR: Nmissi  
PART:17/?  
DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,   
what makes you think I'd share him with you?  
DISTRIBUTION: Want it? Take it. Just let me know where it's going.

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com  
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

It was much too early in the morning for the racket coming up from downstairs.

The vampire Angel, formerly Angelus, scourge of Europe, turned over in his bed and put his pillow across his face. Somewhere in his sleep sodden brain he'd made the connection- the voice downstairs was Familiar, and very drunk; and therefore not threatening. So he tried to muffle the off-key rendition of ""One hundred bottles of beer on the wall" coming up the steps. Unfortunately it kept getting closer. Even more unfortunately, it seemed to have lost count and started over.

He sat up in his bed as his 

foe, friend

Childe, stepped into the bedroom.

" What is it, 'Spike"? Surely you've a good reason to be in my home, drunk and disorderly at,"

He checked his wristwatch.

" –the unholy hour of ten a.m."

The blonde moved unsteadily, unevenly, upon what appeared to be bare feet. His hand clutched a very large bottle of some very bad vodka. He was dressed, if you could call it that, in black jeans and the ubiquitous duster, under which was worn a red shirt. It was buttoned up all wrong. 

He staggered from the doorway over to the bed, and from this vantage point Angel could see he'd been fighting. His lip split, blood caked at the corner of it. And worse yet, it looked like he might have been crying.

Spike collapsed beside the bed, upon the floor, and Angel struggled with his instincts. The urge to soothe warred with the urge to beat and berate him. Angelus had never been one to comfort his kindred, and he had loathed William's human emotions as a weakness. 

He got up, and pulled some sweats out of adresser drawer, tugging them on. Then he walked around the bed and stepped over the prone form, snatching the bottle out of Spike's hand. Raising it to his face, he peered at its label.

"Popov, William? How the mighty have fallen."

The lump on the floor began to shake slightly with mirth.

"You don't know the half of it, mate."

Angel seized him roughly by the back of the neck, dragging him up off of his face.

"Why don't you explain it to me, then?"

Then he caught Spike's scent. It baffled him.

Spike smelled wrong. 

It was subtle. Had there been other humans in the room, he might never have noticed, but amid the tangy scent of his immortal blood, there was something new. Or rather, something old. Surprisingly, he remembered it from William's clothes.

There was the smell of mortal skin, mortal sweat. The distinct smell of a living, breathing, human male.

And the neck in his fierce grip was warm.

Spike struggled not to vomit as he was thrown backwards, his head banging into the leg of the bed. The nausea was intense, and the pain to his skull exacerbated it.

Angel's voice shook slightly with fear.

"What the fuck IS this?" 

"I don't know, Sire. But I was sort of hoping you'd make it go away."

"Hi there. Nice to see you with your eyes open."

Dawn was blinking sleepily, the drugs in her system still keeping her drowsy.

"Hi yourself."

Buffy pulled the chair up closer to the bedside, and reached for the small hand of her sister.

"You had us all worried, really worried, You know that?"

"I'm sorry. I thought I might be back before Dad or anybody else noticed."

Buffy sighed.

"Don't you realize what a dangerous place L.A. is? My god, Dawn…What were you thinking?"

She squeezed Dawn's hand firmly, and continued.

"maybe, because you've survived Vampires and Hellgods, you think you're safer or something. But you're not. Being the key, being my sister, being really lucky- None of it makes you bulletproof. "

Dawn's eyes grew wide.

"Is that what happened?"

Buffy nodded. 

"You were with Angel at Caritas, do you remember?"

Dawn nodded yes.

"Well, some people came in with guns and crossbows, and started shooting. You took two bullets, both in your back. One did a little soft tissue damage, nothing major. The other one hit your spine and lodged there. The doctors did several surgeries to remove it, and to repair the damage it left behind."

"How much damage?" 

Buffy lowered her head.

"We don't know yet. The doctors are concerned about your loss of feeling, but they think some of it is attributable to swelling and that could get better with some time."

Dawn realized then, that she couldn't move her legs. She tried, but nothing happened. And as her sister watched, tears began to roll down her face.

"Oh, baby. I'm sorry."

Buffy reached over and hugged her, stroking the dark silk of her long hair. 

"It'll be okay. Really, it will be Okay."

Behind her she heard a familiar voice, coming from the nurse's station across the hall. Buffy stood up and met Giles at the door, with a bear hug.

"Well, that's a warmer greeting than I've come to expect." 

He hugged her tightly, and Buffy felt safe again for a moment. It was a fragile, false feeling, but she clung to it nonetheless. Logically, she knew she was better equipped to protect Dawn than Giles was. Emotionally, she couldn't help feeling everything would be better, now that he was here. 

His embraced loosened, and he stepped back slightly to better see her face. Then he took her arm and they walked over to the patient.

"Hello, Dawn." 

His kindly face smiled down at her, with just a hint of disapproval forming in the set of his brows.

"Hiya Mr. Giles."

"You've had yourself quite an adventure, I see."

Dawn adopted a shamed, hangdog expression, which dampened her mentor's anger. Buffy knew the expression for what it was, rolled her eyes heavenward. Dawn was playing him again. 

"You've very pretty flowers, in here," he remarked, taking in the arrangements.

She pointed.

"The big one is from Angel and his gang. It had a box of chocolates wit h it but Buffy put it in the drawer over there. And the bear is from Spike."

"And the balloons?"

Buffy piped up.

"that's me. I figure, Candy is fattening, flowers die…Balloons seem more practical."

He smiled and nodded.

"Yes. Well. I- I have something for you, too, Dawn. Here."

He set his attaché down, and fumbled with its latches. Reaching in, he produced a plastic bag from a Sunnydale Record Shop. 

He thrust the package at her as if he found it distasteful.

"Here. The man at the counter said these were just out this week, so I was fairly certain you didn't yet have them."

She pulled several cds out of the bag, and a tee shirt. 

"Woa, Giles- Ricky Martin. Soul Decision. OmiGosh, You actually bought me a backstreet boys shirt? Cool."

He smiled at her.

"I'm relieved to see that you like them."

She reached up for him then, her long slender arms open, and he leaned in hesitantly. Dawn pulled his head down close to envelope him in a snug embrace. He relaxed into it, patting her back, and then kissed her on her forehead.

Buffy watched them. Giles plainly adored her baby sister. And Buffy loved him all the more for it. She thought momentarily of her absent father, and could not help but contrast the two men. Dad was playful and affectionate, when he was interested in them. But he was also much more involved more in his own life than those of his girls. Giles was rarely playful, and visibly uncomfortable with displays of physical affection. But he was so very involved that he'd braved the humiliation of the pop section at the Record store, just to bring Dawn the perfect gift.

She shook herself out of the reverie, and addressed the Watcher.

"Where's Ben? Didn't he take the flight out with you?"

Giles turned to her.

"He'll be coming from the hotel. He went ahead with our suitcases; I took a cab straight here from the airport."

Of course. Giles would do that, he'd want to be here as quickly as possible.

Buffy walked up beside him, and surprised him with another hug.

'He really is the most Wonderful Man.', she thought.

Maybe he needed reminding.

"Just in case you haven't heard it in awhile…I love you," said Buffy.

"Yeah. Me too," Dawn piped up. She reached a hand out to him, and he took it.

Buffy reached over to rumple her sister's hair.

"And I love you, 'Me too'," she said.

Giles stood between them silently, his heart so full he lacked words. He didn't verbalize his affections, as they had. But he didn't need to. His girls knew how well they were loved.

Angel was sitting on the edge of the bed, now, watching him as he smoked his cigarette and tried to explain.

"I don't know, Angel. I don't know what happened. Buffy told me to look up, and there It was- In the bleedin' mirror on the sodding ceiling. And she was all crying and laughing and shit, and I was just in shock. So I go look at m'self, right? Wanting to see it better, see up close. And she points out that my damn heart is beating."

He raked his cigarette hand through his hair, lucky not to have ignited himself.

Angel's tone was gentle, as he prodded.

" Spike, you're not telling me what HAPPENED."

"I told you, mate! I looked up and There It was!"

He shook his head. Spike the human was no less irritating than Spike the vampire.

"No, I mean, when did you feel the change, what happened right before it-"

Spike laughed at him.

"What change? I didn't feel any change. I just noticed that all of a sudden, today I've got a reflection and a heartbeat-"

"Well, what _about _the heartbeat? Didn't you notice when it started?"

The blonde shook his head vigorously.

"No. No, I didn't. I didn't notice it til she pointed it out to me."

Angel was perplexed. He didn't understand how this had occurred, or why.

"I mean, I know I had that chip for a year and a half. Worst months of my life, that. Couldn't hunt or kill. But it's been out for weeks, now. And when that Glory thing-"

He shuddered at the memory.

"-when she had me open on her bed, I can tell you one thing, that heart was NOT beating then. She pointed it out to me; that it wasn't."

"What are you talking about, Spike? When did Glory have you?"

Angel remembered the name from Dawn's ramblings. So, the HellGoddess had Spike at some point…

"When she tried to pull my heart out!Well, okay, I sorta went to her to pretend like I was gonna sell-out the Nibblet. But I had this plan, see, to get her off Buffy's back. Only, she decided to torture the information out of me. Stupid bint- I'd come to give her that information, willingly. Okay, it was all a setup, but still. So she tortured me for a while, and I figured out pretty fast that the only thing keeping me alive was my silence. So I shut up tight and let this nutty bitch carve on me for a day or so. "

He was tracing his hands unconsciously over the heart scar as he spoke. Angel knew the signs, knew posttraumatic stress disorder when he saw it. He'd been responsible for it on numerous occasions. He wisely directed the discourse away from Spike's capture.

"Okay. But Buffy rescued you, right? Then what happened."

His child looked up at him in despair.

"Nothing. What do you want me to say?I played pool. I drove the car. I watched the telly. …I just went home and lived my unlife. Minded my own business, I did."

His child was hiding something. 

"What else, Spike? What aren't you telling me?"

"Sod it all. It was a mistake to come here."

He pulled himself up off the floor, and Angel seized his wrist in his hand.

"Wait. Don't leave."

He really, really didn't mean to sound that pathetic. Honest he didn't. But he wanted to understand what had happened to Spike, wanted to help him deal with this change. 

But mostly, he just didn't want him to leave.

It had been so long since Spike had needed him for anything. It was nice to be needed. And it was nice to be able to appreciate it. Angelus had never appreciated his children, their companionship, their love. Only as Angel did he learn to value what he'd already lost. It wasn't quite fair.

"What? You'll just keep asking the same questions. And I'll keep giving the same answers. I don't KNOW what happened."

Angel nodded, and released his arm. Spike sat down alongside him.

"I don't know what happened. But Listen, I'm fairly sure we can Undo it." 

Spike's voice was desperate, even as he tried his best to sound reasonable. 

"You just have to turn me again. Dru isn't here to do it this time, it'll have to be you."

His eyes pleaded with Angel, pleaded for the gift he'd lost.

But Angel shook his head at him.

"No, Spike. No, I can't. It would be a mistake."

His boy was Livid.

"What d' you mean, it would be a mistake? Isn't this a mistake? I was a VAMPIRE, Angelus! For a century I was a force to be reckoned with, a thing that stalked the night leaving terror in my midst. Now I'm supposed to just, I don't know, Go be a human? Think, Angelus, think. I possess exactly two skills- the ability to fight and the ability to kill. I'm not quite cut out to live like one of the herd."

Angelus could still smell His Own Blood flowing through those newly human veins. How could this be? It led him to another question.

"Spike, when did you last feed?"

Spike looked away from him.

"I don't know."

"what do you mean, ' I don't know'? Vampires remember when they EAT, Spike. When, what, did you eat?"

"It's been a few days…"

Spike was visibly disturbed by this line of conversation. But Angel waited. He'd have the whole story out of him eventually. Hopefully he wouldn't have to beat it out of him, was all he hoped.

" It was a container of Sodding Cow's Blood, alright? Spike the Evil Vampire has been Vegetarian for some time now, Peaches. Happy?"

Angel saw the shame in him, and his suspicions grew.

"So. You haven't been feeding. How about killing?"

Again Spike wouldn't meet his eyes.  
"No."

"Not since the "chip" came out." 

His flat statement was a question.

"No," came the reply.

Angel was formulating a theory. Spike had been becoming "Human" for some time. He'd slowly lost his desire for blood, his urge to kill. And now, his heart was beating-

"How did the sunlight affect you?"

Spike shrugged.

"Didn't hurt. Tingled a little at first, but then nothing."

If Spike still had the chip, he'd think he had his answer. But it was out before the change. 

"Spike, listen to me. Tell me about anything mystical you've encountered recently. I don't know, maybe a spell, maybe a curse-"

"I didn't eat a bad gypsy, if that's what you're getting at. I've been shagging myself silly, and it hasn't done a damn thing. And I don't suddenly feel the weight of the world on my shoulders, either."

Angel ignored the ugly undercurrent of attack in Spike's words. He pushed on.

"You don't feel any different, then. You don't feel the weight of your soul?"

Spike looked at him squarely.

"What Soul?"

Angel sighed. None of this made sense.

"How do you feel about the murders you've done, Spike?"

"How do you want me to feel? You think I should be all overwrought, and go eat rats and be you?"

Angel stayed calm.

"No, Spike. I just want to know how you feel about them."

"Angel, I want my unlife back. Obviously I'm not too broken up about it."

His Grandsire stood, letting out a sigh. He definitely felt the weight of his own soul.

"I think Cordelia has coffee downstairs. I'll go get you some." 

He eyed the empty Vodka bottle. 

"You probably could use it."

"I don't want any coffee. I came here for one thing- to get my life back."

"I won't do it, Spike."

"What is it? You feel the need to see me humbled? Fine. You don't have to leave me mortal to see me grovel, I'll do it right now."

And then he did something he'd not done since the first, early years of his turning.

Spike lowered himself before Angel. He dropped to his knees, on the cool floor. He cast his eyes downward. His entire body posture changed, as his defiance leaked out of him.

He was submitting to his Elder, beta to alpha, fledgling to master. 

Some remnant of Angelus rose to this sight, and Angel fought his demon back down. Angelus was a conflicted creature, even among demons he'd been an oddity.

On one hand, he enjoyed seeing William subservient. On the other, that same subservience repulsed him. He never knew whether to beat the boy for his arrogance or for his timidity. And the fledgling William had been beaten for both, regularly.

That Spike would submit now, here with him, sickened him to the heart.

"Get up. Just get up, Damn it. I don't want your fake fawning. You don't respect me now, and you never did."

Angel dragged him to his feet, and Spike grabbed at his shoulders.

"Please, Angelus. If ever you loved me in the slightest, Please don't leave me like this!"

The pain in his eyes was wrenching. Part of Angel wanted to do it, to reclaim him, if only to stop the torment.

Angel took him in his arms, pulling him close. 

"Maybe it's a miracle, Will. You've been given another chance."

Spike jerked himself free of his Sire's embrace.

"S'not MY miracle, you imbecile. It's Yours. Did you even think about that, Peaches? I got your girl, Maybe I got your prophecy to go with her."

He said it like it was a disease, this humanity. And Angel thought for a moment. What if he was right? What if the prophecy were wrong, and it wasn't him, wasn't Angel who would get to be mortal?

His stomach sank.

"You refuse me aid, then, do you?"

Spike's tone was surprisingly formal, his words clearer than they'd been much of the morning.

" I will not turn you, Spike. I can't do it."

"Fuck you then."

Spike's punch caught him off guard, and he went flying back into the dresser.

He came up with his fists out, swinging, as Spike lunged at him again.

Angel drew first blood; as Spike's split lip reopened under his hand. But the boy was resourceful; and apparently still quite strong. Angel was faster, but not by much. Spike took his blows manfully, and paid them back in kind. 

Some time later, amid blood and broken furniture, the blonde looked up from beneath his grandsire's arm. They'd fought to a standstill, and now lay together in a bloody heap.

"You really won't do it?"

Angel shook his head sadly, and Spike's voice was soft.

"Why?"

Angel caressed the bloody forehead, smoothing back the damp hair.

"Because I love you. And you've been given this wonderful gift. But you're like a little kid, who got the wrong thing for Christmas. You don't see how wonderful it is, because it's not what you asked for."

He looked at him meaningfully.

"But I would be cruel to take it from you."


	18. The Healing

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #18 "the healing"

AUTHOR: Nmissi  
PART:18/?  
DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,   
what makes you think I'd share him with you?  
DISTRIBUTION: Want it? Take it. Just let me know where it's going.

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com  
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

He looked remarkably like an ordinary man. And Giles could vouch for his simplistic conversational skills after spending several hours beside him on a plane. Even his attire was commonplace; a blue sweatshirt with a team logo, and jeans. He looked like Everyman. 

It was good cover for a demigod in exile.

"What exactly are you, um…Going to do for her?"

Beneficus, better known to his coworkers at Sunnydale Southwest Hospital as Ben, shrugged his shoulders at Buffy as she asked her question.

"It's hard to explain. It's just my hand of power, it's what I do."

Then he looked at Dawn as he explained carefully.

"I'm going to put my fingers right here, on your neck. It's the site of the most damage, according to the x-rays."

He looked over his shoulder back at Buffy and Giles. Giles looked very worried, but Buffy was merely attentive.

" And it might look a little scary. I'm going to put my hands through the skin, into the neck, and repair the injury. It might get a little bright, too."

Giles spoke up, hesitantly.

"You have, erm. Done this before?"

Ben grinned back.

"Yes. I've been healing humans for thousands of years, Sir. It's what I'm good at."

His expression darkened.

"There's only one thing that concerns me. It's possible Glory will sense Dawn, when I heal her. I'm weak still, from a full schedule at work, and the botched heal a few weeks ago."

"B-Botched? Heal?" stammered Giles.

"It's nothing. I tried to heal somebody who was already dead."

He glanced at Buffy. 

"Your friend with the sucking chest wound. Is he okay?"

She nodded, her brow furrowing.

"What is it, Buffy?" prompted her watcher.

She shook her head.

"It's nothing." 

She gave Dawn her brightest smile.

"Ready to get started?"

The girl nodded.

Ben continued.

"Anyway, since I'm not at full strength, there's a danger I might not can keep her out. We have to share the vessel, and primary control belongs to whichever of us is strongest at any given time. Glory hasn't drank in a long while, so she's very weak. But if Dawn drains me low enough, Glory will emerge."

He looked at the young girl in the bed again, searching her eyes for evidence she understood the danger to her if that should happen.

Buffy watched, as he stroked her sister's neck, right at the base of the hairline. Then his fingers lit up, glowing somehow, and he pushed them through the skin into Dawn's neck.

His face was tense, his brows knit together as he worked. Sweat beaded on his forehead and ran down the bridge of his nose.

"Does it hurt?" asked Buffy tentatively of her sister.

"Nuh uh. No, not at all." 

Dawn's voice conveyed her amazement. She could FEEL his fingers, inside her bones, beneath her skin- It was a remarkably intimate feeling, like a caress. But it had the immediacy of a punch, the full-flesh contact sensation of pain, without, well- Pain.

Ben stepped back suddenly, pulling his hands out of the girl.

Dawn bounced up off of the bed.

"It worked! Ben, It worked!"

She tossed her arms around him, hugging him close. He staggered and she caught the full weight of him in her arms, up against her chest.

"too much. Too much reality to shift probabilities-"

He fainted, and Buffy dragged him off Dawn and lay him back on Dawn's bed.

Giles fretted nervously in the corner. He'd been against this from the beginning. but Buffy had been insistent.

Ben's eyes snapped open, and he looked directly at Dawn.

"She's coming. Go. Now."

There was pleading in his gaze. Dawn backed out of the room, and ran down the hall. Giles pursued her, but Buffy stood in the hospital room interrogating the healer.

"Okay. "She's coming". But she's supposed to be weak, right? What do I do, how do I stop her?"

"You don't. You just run, Buffy."

"If she's weak, why can't I kill her?" asked the girl.

"We share the vessel. If the vessel perishes, we both-"

Giles ran back into the room.

" Too fast. Buffy, I can't – I can't find her," he panted.

"Go, Now, both of you. She's coming."

The Slayer and the Watcher fled, leaving the god alone. 

Within minutes, Ben's labored breathing was replaced by a low, feminine groan. And a wet, thin, deranged goddess in jeans and a blue sweatshirt crawled towards the hospital room door.


	19. Restrained

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #19 "Restrained"

AUTHOR: Nmissi  
PART:19/?  
DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,   
what makes you think I'd share him with you?  
DISTRIBUTION: Want it? Take it. Just let me know where it's going.

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com  
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

His head ached, and his back hurt. There was several thousand dollars worth of property damage to answer for as well; the antique armoire would hereafter have a Spike-shaped dent in its left door, and the nightstand had splintered under its use as a shield. 

It was also possible he'd dislocated his jaw in the scuffle, thought Angel, probing his chin with bloody fingers.

Spike had left an hour ago. No more words had been spoken, no more punches had been thrown. He'd simply gotten up off of the floor and left. No goodbyes.

William never said goodbye.

Angel's mind worked and reworked the conundrum of his boy's newfound Humanity, as he righted the room. How had it happened? Why had it happened?

Did it mean Shanshu would not be for Angel, then?

He made up the bed, and carried the broken furniture downstairs to leave by the back door. When it was full dark, he'd remove the junk to the dumpster, but for now it would wait by the rear entrance to the hotel, out of the way.

Cordy would be along soon; she was coming in late after sitting up with Gunn last night. He was a bad patient; she'd bitched to Angel on the phone late in the evening that he was refusing the proffered diet of sherbet and soft drinks, and instead bullying her to go get McDonald's.

So it would be just the three of them today; and maybe until Gunn's injury healed up. 

He thought of Gunn stuck at home, eating orange sherbet and unable to speak. 

" Maybe I ought to send over a care package or something."

He made a mental note to call up the video place and see what they could deliver later.

As he was coming back through the building he noticed the blood on the floor by the steps. Apparently Spike had stepped init upstairs, and tracked it down here. There was a half- footprint on the tile. Just the toes, and the foresection of the foot; the heel was absent. On the stairs themselves were more complete marks, left as he'd come down.

Angel sighed. This was familiar. Spike was gone, and he was picking up broken bits, and cleaning up blood. 

It was comforting to know humanity hadn't altered him much.

He got dish soap from the kitchen, and using a small trashcan for a bucket he headed over to clean up the mess.

Spike's blood.

Drusilla's blood.

His blood.

Darla's. 

Angel scrubbed up the last remaining traces of his family with warm soapy water. The scent of the stain was homey and familiar; whatever magic had Undone William, it had left his sire's blood in his veins. 

But the blood now pumped through a living human heart. 

As Angel scrubbed, quiet tears fell unchecked onto the floor.

Blood and tears alike, he eradicated all traces of them both.

Buffy found Dawn cowering in the men's room. She reached for her.

"It's okay, Dawn. It's going to be fine."

The girl pulled free of her.

"No, it's not! Don't lie to me, don't try to make me feel better. It's never going to be fine again. That thing, that thing won't stop until it gets me. And you can't stop her, and Ben can't stop her. All she needs is a few people to brainsuck and she'll be back in business."

Dawn slumped against the wall, and cried.

Buffy didn't know what to do for her. She was right; Glory was too strong. Buffy had no idea how to defeat something like that.

Right now, she was out there somewhere, leading some poor soul into a lifetime of institutionalization.

And Buffy didn't care.

It shocked her to the core.

All those helpless people, potential Glory victims; but all Buffy Summers was interested in was getting her little sister the hell out of Dodge. 

Screw it. She'd have a morality crisis later, when she had more time.

She dragged Dawn up off the ground.

"Come On. We have to go."

Together they slunk out into the hall, and Buffy saw Giles up ahead of her. 

"Giles!" She hissed.

Wonder of wonders, he heard her, and backtracked.

"Dawn. Thank God you found her."

Quickly he removed his coat, and tossed it around the girl's shoulders, covering the green hospital gown.

"I'm parked by the side entrance- Pulmonary Rehab wing. Come On, I think we can get there without being noticed."

Buffy hurried them into an elevator, and sighed gratefully when no one else got on before the door closed. 

In the parking lot they hurried toward the long, black, de Soto. 

Dawn took in the obvious;

"Where's Spike, Buffy?"

She shoved her sister into the backseat, while Giles climbed into the passenger seat, kicking bottles out of his way.

As Buffy started the car, she asked her again.

"Buffy?"

The Slayer exhaled a long, deep breath.

"I don't really know, Dawn. He was gone when I got up."

Something beeped in the backseat, and Dawn rooted around under plastic bags and more bottles until she came up with Buffy's purse.

Damn it. Why wasn't she answering?

Spike shifted uncomfortably, dragging his foot across the floor. The paper shoe made a scratchy hiss as he did it. The man standing behind him waited,his foot tapping impatiently.

Spike gave him a sheepish smile.

"She's not answering yet. Probably can't remember where she left the bloody phone. You know women."

Then it clicked on the other end.

"Hello?"

That wasn't Buffy, that was-

"Nibblet! You're awake!"

"Who is it, Dawn?" asked Giles.

In the backseat Dawn put a hand over her other ear in order to better hear the caller. Outside the windows, the world flew past as Buffy did seventy and Giles gripped the door and dash.

"Yeah, it's me. Yeah, I'm good. Fine, actually. Ben fixed me, fixed it so I can walk and stuff. Yeah? Okay. Um Hmm. Yep he's here. Okay."

She handed the phone over the seat to Giles.

"He wants to talk to you."

Giles took the phone apprehensively, and brought it to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Don't hang up."

Spike thought it best to get that out of the way first. Just in case the Watcher was more in the loop than he'd thought. As this was the only call he'd get to make- He'd better make it count.

On the other end of the line, he heard the slow intake of breath, and could envision the Watcher carefully selecting his words.

"All right. I won't hang up. Where are you?"

The blonde rumpled his hair with his free hand, swallowing whatever shreds of dignity he had left.

"well, now, I was getting to that part. But before I tell you, you've got to promise you won't say anything to the Slayer."

If annoyance had any particular resonance or frequency, Spike knew he'd have an earful of it by now. He waited.

"You know I can't do that."

In the background he heard her voice, asking who was on the phone.

"It's no threat to anyone's safety old man. The only thing threatened right now is my self-esteem."

"Where ARE you?" the older man asked again. His tone said that he was rapidly losing patience.

Spike sighed and wished for a cigarette.

Buffy watched Giles trace his fingers across his furrowed forehead. He sighed, and the look on his face told her who was on the phone.

"Is that Spike?"

He nodded and she stuck her hand out.

"Give me the phone."

He didn't, so she reached out with her right hand and snatched it from him. She could always apologize later. 

The phone to her ear, she attempted to drive and talk at the same time.

"Spike? Is that you? Where are you?"

In the County lockup, at the payphone, the guard glowered while Spike gave up and accepted humiliation. 

It wasn't like she was NOT going to find out anyway. Nosy bitch always knew his business.

He adopted a sweet tone, conciliatory, placating.

"Yeah, it's me, love. Listen, Can you do me a favor? Can you get your hot little hands on two hundred dollars in cash before four o'clock?"

"Spike, what's going on? Where are you?" 

He noted with no small amount of pleasure that the annoyance in her voice had an undertone of worry. He smiled at the portly guard, and gave him thumbs up as he addressed Buffy.

"I'm in Jail, baby. Can you lot come bail me out?"

He thought for a moment, and added.

" And maybe swing by the apartment and get me my boots?"


	20. Firstborn

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #20 "Firstborn"

AUTHOR: Nmissi  
PART:20/?  
DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,   
what makes you think I'd share him with you?  
DISTRIBUTION: Want it? Take it. Just let me know where it's going.

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com  
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

"Angel!"

The front doors slammed shut with a loud bang. Angel looked up from his morning ritual- coffee cup, newspaper. All very human, but for the contents of said cup. 

He recognized the angry voice coming from the lobby.

The ugly scene with Spike. 

The loss of his furniture. 

It really just wasn't his day.

"Where are you, you cowardly undead piece of shit?"

Angel folded up his newspaper, and laid it on the table. He got up, carried his half-empty cup across the room, and placed it inside the microwave. Then he calmly went out to beat sense into Lindsay McDonough.

"Good morning, Lindsay!" 

His jovial tone belied the fire burning behind his eyes. This man had wronged him repeatedly. He'd tormented him. He'd ran him over with a car. He'd been responsible for the last sixth months of earthbound Hell Angel had just endured.

He'd given him back Darla, and taken her away again.

'Maybe this time I'll just kill him.' Angel mused on the possibility with no small amount of satisfaction.

Lindsay weaved a bit on his feet, trying to remember what he was doing here. The stake in his hand reminded him, and he smiled to himself. 

"Come on out here, now."

His hand squeezed on the wood in his palm. It felt good, the smoothness of the grain against his skin. Its cool weight was a balm to his injured pride. Just a little longer, Lindsay. Just a little longer and it'll all be over.

He could hear the vampire towards the back of the building, his hearty "good morning" and the slap of his feet against the tile rang in the human's ears, and reverberated behind his eyes. 

Not only was he a bloodsucking menace, but he had no respect for a good strong hangover.

Angel strode out to meet him, and Lindsay looked him over in scorn. 

The wavy black hair, the dark smoldering eyes. That broad, rippling chest he didn't even bother to pull a shirt over. 

Lindsay thought again about that bitch Darla and wished Vampires didn't dust at death. He'd love to send her Angel's torso, intact and complete, after he'd killed him. Or maybe even a few other choice parts. 

She'd certainly preferred them.

He snarled at his rival and came for him.

Angel sidestepped the mortal's pathetic lunge. Lindsay was drunk, judging by the way he walked. Also, he was still garbed in yesterday's clothes, as evidenced by their wrinkles and their smell.

He brought a hand up and slapped the boy across the side of the face, enjoying the sound it made, and the way it rouged his cheek.

Then he reached with the other hand and snapped the stake in two, and flung him back into the wall.

"Well, I'm here, now, Lindsay. What was it you wanted again?"

The boy pulled himself up to his knees, and lunged at him again. This time the momentum was sufficient to knock the vampire down. Luck and the laws of gravity on his side, he took the opportunity to land a punch to Angel's groin. It felt good, racking him up. Lindsay decided that before he staked him, he would cut the fucker's balls off for a trophy.

Angel hissed at the pain, but it didn't slow him down any. He grabbed the boy around the head and tried to twist his neck. But he was damp with perspiration, and maybe booze- Angel's hands slipped and the boy got free. He landed another punch, this one to Angel's eye.He followed it with another.

They weren't terribly hard blows, and the vampire didn't really feel them. But he got a good look at Lindsay's eyes then, while he was waling on him. They burned with ferocity, with pain and anger. Angel felt his undead heart moved by the sight. Lindsay had a certain beauty to his rage. Angelus would have adored him.

This time he seized the hand that hit him,and crushed the wrist.

"You want to lose this hand too, boy? 

Lindsay didn't react to the pain, or the threat. He was too far gone. His head came downhard as he bashed Angel's with it. Beneath him, the vampire laughed loudly. It fueled his mortal rage.

Angel brought a knee up into Lindsay's lap, and knocked the air out of him. Gasping, the mortal rolled off to the side. Instead of standing, Angel just rolled after him.

He crouched above him and hit him in the face again. Three more punches, one for each one Lindsay had successfully landed. They had more impact on the human. The blood poured from his nose, and his mouth.   
His fists kept up a rhythm on the mortal, as Angel gave himself over to the beating. He would teach this whelp a lesson, teach him once and for all the futility of his arrogance. He'd come here to take down a vampire with a splinter. He'd soon learn his proper place in the world. Angel would send him crawling back to Wolfram and Hart with more pieces missing.

He pulled back a moment, to admire his work. The beautiful face before him had been reduced to a pulsing mass of blood and bruised flesh. He'd almost crushed the windpipe, so Lindsay's breath whistled. 

"You go back to your masters- You tell them any one they send against me, I will send back in boxes."

He climbed off of him, trying to ignore how much he had enjoyed that.His demon was still Angelus, and Angelus got off on pain, and its infliction. The demon raged within him, telling him to go back and finish what he'd started. Kill the boy, fuck him, cut him up-

The images teased his thoughts and he warred with his instincts.

His back turned, lost in bloody fantasies, he missed seeing Lindsay pull the gun out of his waistband. But it fired, and Angel felt the bullet go through his shoulder. He rounded, and took in the sight.

Lindsay was still where he'd left him. But he was sitting up slightly, the derringer in his hand pointed Angel's way. 

Through thick lips, Lindsay laughed at him.

"Nobody's leaving this room alive."

Angel regarded his opponent with bemusement.

"Is that so? I guess I'll have to kill you then."

Lindsay nodded. 

"Yeah. You will. But I'll live long enough to take you with me."

Angel tilted his head slightly, and listened to Lindsay breathe. 

" I don't know, pal. You're struggling to breathe already. It's possible you'll die right there, if I leave you alone."

He walked over to the shaking hands and batted the gun out of them, knocking it across the room.

He seized Lindsay by his neck, pulling him to his feet. He dragged the limp form up against himself, pressing him firmly against him. The warmth of a human was seductive, alluring.

"What's the matter, Lindsay? Not feeling your best right now, eh? You want me to call an ambulance for you? Or how bout I call your bosses at Wolfram and Hart..."

Lindsay smiled at him through the blood.

"They fired me."

"Well then, I guess your ass is mine."

The blood smell was maddening. And he was a little impressed. As suicide attempts went, this one had been a beaut. Even now, dying in his hands, the boy struggled. His kicks were puny, pathetic- but he kept trying. And the hate in his eyes was delicious.

He'd already made the decision to let him die. Why not enjoy the death? And the hatred, that would only make it sweeter.

Angel brought the bleeding lips to his own and licked them.

"Your blood is sweet, boy."

He let the demon free, and buried his head in Lindsay's neck, his teeth in his vein. 

The blood was fine, the blood was pure. He tasted of hate and obsession, of love and rejection. He had such pride, such shameless arrogance. He was so like William that Angel ached from it. 

He could feel it between them now,the inevitable arousal that accompanied the blood. It always happened. No matter how much Lindsay hated him, right now, with his mouth against his neck, the boy was his. His hardness against his own, their hips ground together as the heart pumped life into Angel's mouth. And within him, Angelus was sated. The blood was good, the death erotic and exquisite. It poured into the back of his throat and warmed him, the boy in his arms not an enemy now, but a lover. . 

As he fed, he felt it then, inside himself, the longing. It always happened. The demon wanted the boy, wanted to consume him, but even so, it adored him. 

It was a shock when he felt his own blood leaving his body. The circuit closed, and the electric sensation of the blood entering and leaving was the finest feeling in the world. He'd not known it since the creation of Drusilla, but he remembered it. It was excruciating and yet orgasmic. The blood flowing, the bodies merged like one, the pleasure so intense it was painful.

Lindsay's mouth upon the exit wound in his shoulder, his human teeth grinding against his immortal flesh, as the heart slowed, as it stopped.

The boy slumped against him, finished. And Angel pulled himself free, his victim hanging in his arms like a child.

His child.

If he didn't prevent it, Lindsay would wake tonight as one of his line, one of his blood.

Angel's firstborn.

Angelus, for all his evil, had made his children in love. Love of the innocence he sought to eradicate, love of the goodness he hoped to corrupt. 

It was somehow fitting that Lindsay was made in hate, in rape and murder.

There was blood on his lips. Angel traced his finger over them; full, soft, mortal lips.

He really had been beautiful. Even Darla had admired his looks, and she was noted for her fine taste in men. 

Angel lifted the body in his arms, studying him. He knew the right thing to do was to stake him. Right now, before he could rise. He'd have done it for Darla, and he loved her. He owed it to the mortal that Lindsay had been, no matter how wretched and wrong that person was.

But his thoughts took a different path already, as he carried the body up the steps deeper into the hotel. He needed someplace to stash him, before the humans came in today. He'd need somewhere he could hide him, where he could be kept restrained when he woke. He'd wake hungry, and Angel would not place his friends in that kind of danger.

He hid his guilty secret in his bedroom. He undressed the body, washed the blood and stickiness from it. Then he put it in the bed, and chained it in place. 

Taking note of the sizes, he formed his list. He'd need new clothes. And blood, fresh blood, preferablyhuman.


	21. Pickup

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #21 "Pickup"

AUTHOR: Nmissi  
PART:21/?  
DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,   
what makes you think I'd share him with you?  
DISTRIBUTION: Want it? Take it. Just let me know where it's going.

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com  
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

He'd been here since eleven this morning, and the weather channel had been on the telly the entire time. One room, thirty men, and one sodding television showing six hours of the Weather Channel. So much for the prohibition on cruel and unusual punishment. 

The metal door clanged open and a demon entered, his hands chained at his back. Despite his obvious green skin and scales, he drew no particular attention from the rest of the occupants, those currently enjoying the scenic northern blizzard footage. 

Spike noted with a petty twinge of envy that the newcomer had nice boots. Doc Martens, trendier than his own,and undoubtedly newer.

He shifted slightly, trying to squirm away from the old guy beside him who smelled of piss. Unfortunately that caused him to brush elbows with the burly red-haired guy sitting on his other side. This really only became a problem when the redhead brushed back, and smiled at him, interestedly.

"Hello mate!" said Spike, waving to the demon, as he jumped up off the bench and began striding over. The guard unlocked his cuffs, and the demon walked towards Spike, curiousity in his expression.

"Uh, Do I know you?"

"Nah, You don't."

Spike gave a shrug and gestured over his shoulder towards the benches. 

"I just wondered why they aren't ripping up and getting religion after taking sight o' you."

The demon's green skin paled slightly. With a shit-eating grin, he regarded Spike warily.

"It ain't working on you, is it? What are you, half-breed or something?"

Spike shrugged.   
"You could say that. So, what is it- Spell, talisman-"

The demon puffed up with pride.

"Spell. Cost me a good piece, too, but it sure comes in handy on days like this. Fella can go about his business without attracting too much attention."

Spike considered the spell momentarily. It must be good work, no one in the room had yet perceived it but him. 

"What's it do, then? If it's not too personal a question. What're they seein?"

The demon smiled, his posture relaxing a little.

" Normal human. Male, 'bout my height. Paid a little extra for good looks, helps with the ladies if you know what I mean."

He leered a little and Spike made agreeable noises.

"Anyway, it works real good, on most humans. Some trouble with little kids, and crazy people. And crazy old people, man- they're the worst. But it works pretty good otherwise."

Spike fidgeted slightly, as he ransacked his brain, looking for proper conversational topics. 

What did one discuss in Jail? Despite a hundred years of lawlessness on his part, this situation was alien to him.

"So, what're you in for?"

There, that should work. They say that in all the movies.

Green Guy shrugged his leather-jacketed shoulders. 

"Nothin' man, they got the wrong guy."

His nasal whine was grating, so Spike changed the subject.

"Well it's good to meet you mate. What's your name?"

The demon studied him a moment, and Spike could almost read the inner dialogue. His new friend was sizing him up, while running through his mental roster of pseudonyms for the right one to fit this situation. The demon's body posture had "Lackey" or "Snitch" written all over it. He decided to put the bloke at ease.

Spike extended a gentlemanly hand.

"Forgot t' introduce m'self. Name's Spike."

"SPIKE?" the demon asked. His whine jumped an octave, and he stepped a few paces back.

"Yeah, that's it." He replied.

The demon smiled ingratiatingly, while backing away, and sort of raising his palms up.

"You wouldn't be related to some Prick name of Angel, would you now?"

Spike cocked his head to one side. What did this bloke know about angel?

"Erm; Yeah. I would be."

The demon backed clear up against the bars of the holding cell. 

"Oh, Shit, man. Oh Shit. Look, I got nothing to do with you or yours, alright." 

He looked around anxiously, addressing the room in general, over the heads of the humans. 

"Look, I don't even know this guy! Never met him before in my life!"

Spike's curiousity was intensely aroused. Whatever had this little punk so scared was worth investigating. And he'd enjoy trading on his Big Bad reputation for a little while. 

"What's the matter, friend?" He scoffed.

"Surely you're not scared of me."

The demon was backed clear up against the bars, now. 

"Guards! Guards! I- I feel Faint! I think I'm gonna be sick or something!"

Spike walked right up to him, and he cringed.

There was the sensation of eyes watching him. Spike turned his face to the room. It seemed the its denizens were no longer entranced by the snow coverage. He turned his gaze back upon the cowardly demon.

"You puttin' on a show for the nice people?"

The demon was pulled tight against the bars, and Spike leaned in close to his face.

"Surely you're not afraid of little ol' me?!"

Beady little demon eyes met his, and they were full of terror.

"Man, you people are a frickin' DEATH SENTENCE," he hissed. 

" Somebody sees me with you, they might mistake me for a relative or something-"

Just then a guard came back into the hallway, and stood outside the barred door.

"Walthrop, William," he read off the notepad in his chubby fists, "Quit makin' time with your girlfriend- Your bond's posted, you're out of here."

Spike stepped back, and the demon on the bars relaxed. Spike gave him a cocky smile.

"Lovely to have made your acquaintance. " he said, as the guard opened the door. He sauntered through it, eminently cool, even in paper shoes.

" One pack of cigarettes, check. One lighter, check. Three dollars and seventeen cents, check. One half of a butterfinger candy bar, check. One aluminum flask; empty. Check. One ring, check. One earring, check. One bottle of nailpolish. Check."

A bored, middle aged woman with a bland face slid the clipboard under the glass to him.

"Sign by the X."

He did so, sliding the board back,and wondering at the events of his morning. Somebody somewhere, had his name and fingerprints in a database now. Shit- what had he said his birthday was? He'd been so drunk he might have told the truth. 

"May I see those again, please?" 

He adopted his most charming smile, and the woman on the other side of the glass came to life; blushing slightly.

"Here you are." 

She slid the papers over again.

He winked at her.

"aren't you a love? Just wanted to check something."

There it was, in black and white. They'd not even called him on it. 1868. Sheesh. 

He adopted another fake smile and slid it back.

" Thank you." 

This time she giggled.   


"If you're finished scooping out the public servants, We Can Go Now. "

Spike turned his head, and there she was; his beautiful Buffy. Glowering at him, thunderclouds in her eyes, she stood by the exit, tapping her foot impatiently. 

"Damn she's hot when she's angry."

Shit. He'd said that out loud. 

Commence the verbal backpedaling, he thought. 

"Slayer! Good of you to come downtown to get me like this, I really appreciate it. Sorry about all the trouble and all, and tell your watcher I'll pay him back every d-"

She cut off his words with a slap, the crisp sound filling the room. Then she simply walked out on him.

He followed her through the exit, and out into the bright daylight, into the parking lot. 

He jogged to catch up to her, admiring her rump. It moved just so when she was angry; she sort of stalked. He found it very distracting as he fumbled mentally to come up with good excuses for his behaviour. Somehow having a meltdown over mortality wasn't going to be good enough, he knew that.

"Buffy! Buffy wait up! Look, pet, I'm sorry, really I am. You don't know how sorry-"

She stopped, and turned around. The sun making her squint, she nevertheless managed to scowl at him quite effectively.

"You're sorry."

He caught up to her, winded. He panted his words.

"Well. Yeah. I'm sorry."

She ran a hand through her long blonde locks, shaking her head.

"I just don't get it, Spike. I thought we worked through this, I thought you were okay. Then I wake up, and you're gone. No note. No anything. Your boots in the apartment and your keys on the counter. Did it ever occur to you I might be worried? And what about Dawn, Hmm? You were supposed to be there for her this morning, remember? You promised."

He hung his head.

"Yeah, I know. And I'm really sorry about disappointing the Nibblet. I did mean to be back before the hospital, I swear-"

She stuck her chin out, and balled her hands into fists which she planted firmly on her narrow hips.

"And WHERE were you while I was off at the hospital, talking to Dawn's doctors, while Ben was doing the healing-"

He opened his mouth to reply but she did it for him.

"I'll tell you where you were. You were getting carted off to jail. Let's see if I can remember it right; there were SO many charges."

She ticked them off on her fingers.

"Public Intoxication. Disturbing the peace. Creating a public nuisance. Assaulting a police officer. Defacing police property. Creating a traffic obstacle…"  
She said this last with a look of wonder, again shaking her locks. 

"I don't know why I don't just stake you…"

He moved in close to her, all charisma and charm. This had to work. No matter how cute she was angry, he wouldn't get any until she got over it, of that he was certain.

"I don't know either, baby. I'm a bad man, and I don't deserve your forgiveness."

He said this even as he stepped into her personal space, overwhelming her with his nearness and seducing her with the timbre of his voice. She squinted up into his handsome face, and he wiggled an eyebrow at her.

"Peace, love? Please?"

He saw her attitude shift slightly, and rejoiced. She was wavering. He'd be in her good graces again by nightfall.

She turned her back to him, and headed over to his car. Opening the trunk, she pulled out his boots and threw them at him. He ducked left, then right, afterwards picking them up off the concrete.

"You sober?" she asked, watching him pull on his boots.

"Yeah,"he replied. 

She tossed the keys at him, and walked around to the passenger side. Giles got out, staring hard at the vampire in daylight.

"Buffy, I don't understand-"

Spike walked up, and opened the driver's side door.

"S'okay mate. I'll explain in the car. Christ I'm hungry. You lot feel like Pancake house?"


	22. Awakening

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #22 "Awakening."

AUTHOR: Nmissi  
PART:22

DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,   
what makes you think I'd share him with you?  
DISTRIBUTION: Want it? Take it. Just let me know where it's going.

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com  
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

Hunger. The first thing he knew was the hunger, the blinding thirst that obliterated all before it. As consciousness returned, he became aware of other sensations; the cold weight of metal at his wrists and on his ankles, feel of silk against his skin. His hearing was acute; the scratching sound of the sheets as he moved his hands on them was so loud as to be painful. And there were beating, throbbing sounds coming from somewhere far off, that sharpened the hunger. The smell of something luscious, warm and wonderful… His mouth was cotton dry, as he wanted. 

Where was he?

The last thing he remembered…

"Just sign here, and here, and here….And welcome to the firm, Lindsay. You're going to have a real future with us…"

Holland's face, warm and welcoming. Souls were overrated, anyway, right? It's not like he'd need his for anything.

Then it started…a trickle at first, but soon it became a rushing flood. Memories of his work at Wolfram and Hart, of working his way up the ranks. 

Body parts dissolved in acid. Limbs, heads…Ritual sacrifices, blood sacrifice, blood with power.

Infants, children, frightened young girls. 

Blood on his hands, while there'd been two of them.

There was something worse to lose than a hand. But it might be even worse to get it back.

His soul was heavy with the evil of his actions, and Lindsay began to weep brokenly in the bed. 

"Angel, are you even LISTENING to a word I've said?"

Cordy's face was lined with frustration, and lack of sleep. She'd been going over figures with Angel for the last ten minutes, but he wasn't paying much attention to her. 

"Sorry, Delia. What were you saying?"

She sighed.

"Look, I know you're all wiggy what with the whole Buffy-Spike thing. I mean, I know- Gross. But its not like it was really any big surprise, was it?"  
Huh?

" I mean, he's gotta remind her of you. And you were her first love. And you knew he was working with them, right? Giles told you. So it shouldn't have come as any big shock."

"Cordelia, this is not about Buffy. I'm just stressed from the whole situation. I'm worried about Gunn, I'm worried about what happened at Caritas. Have you two had any luck digging up information there?"

Wesley spoke up.

"Actually there's very little to go on, Angel. None of our contacts have been able to locate the proprietor. My assumption is that he's gone underground until some of this is cleared up."

Angel's eyes glimpsed the clock. It could happen any time now. He'd have to get the humans out of here.

"Wesley, why don't you go by Merl's, see if he's heard anything."

That little shit knew everybody's business, he reflected.

"And you, Delia…go get a manicure. My treat. Your nails are a mess."

She looked down at her hands, in shame.

"I know. I just can't seem to keep the polish on them these days. I just don't have time-"

"MAKE the time. You always seem to feel better when you look better. So go on, take a couple of hours to get yourself together."

He walked over to the desk, and rummaged around for a slip of paper.

"Then, when you're done, go by here. I've ordered something for Gunn. I'd appreciate it if you'd pick it up for me."

She nodded, taking the paper. Then she grabbed her purse.

"I can take you by the manicurist, if you'd like."

"That would be great, Wesley. I just hope she can squeeze me in."

" You can call her from the car, that should help."

Cordelia studied Angel carefully. He'd been acting strangely all day. And now, he was overly eager to get them out of the hotel. Something was fishy, here.

"Ready?"

She looked up at Wesley, then glimpsed back at Angel. His body was taut, his smile forced. Oh, yeah- Something was up, and it didn't look to be good. 

She'd talk to Wes about it in the car.

"Yeah, I'm ready. Let's go."

He heated the blood, and checked the temperature. Then he retrieved a wooden stake from the weapons cache. Taking both items, he mounted the steps. 

He could smell the fear, already. But that wasn't too unusual- Many fledglings woke frightened, disoriented. Sometimes the soul hadn't left yet, and the terror could be paralyzing. In that first early fear, the newborn was like an animal, devoid of intellect or reason, its actions purely instinctual. 

It needed blood to think, the demon did. Until the blood flowed, until the feeding, the demon would be thoughtless, as the human soul still owned the brain. 

But as he reached his door, he was aware of something off. Inside, he could hear weeping, human weeping. Lindsay was awake. But he was already thinking. Something was definitely wrong.

He opened the door on his child.

This was definitely odd.

The starving new demon should be enraged and hungry, not sobbing. Even if it were terrified, that terror should manifest itself in aggression and violence. The new demon should be struggling against his bonds, not lying amongst them in a broken heap.

The newborn raised its head to regard its Sire.

"Angel?"

It was Lindsay before him, Lindsay in his bed. But it was not Lindsay as he'd known him. It was not like any vampire he had ever made. 

The tortured eyes told their own story.

Lindsay had a soul.


	23. Hearth

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #23 "Hearth"

AUTHOR: Nmissi  
PART:23/?

DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,   
what makes you think I'd share him with you?  
DISTRIBUTION: Want it? Take it. Just let me know where it's going.

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com  
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

There simply was not enough good scotch in the world, to make this better, thought Giles, as he poured himself another one.

He could hear them, in the stock room. A plaintive female voice and a strident male one; Xander and Anya, engaged in argument as they had been for weeks now. Arguing over the same topic; Spike.

Spike was Human. The gods alone knew how that had happened. The gang had spent a goodly amount of time debating the possibilities. Buffy was of the opinion it was a result of Ben's botched healing attempt. Dawn thought it was a miracle, Willow thought it was some sort of magic. Giles himself thought it might be a combination of factors, starting with the chip, involving the healing, and maybe some mystical significance- Perhaps Spike, and not Angel, was the vampire of myth and prophecy.

Spike, for his part, refused to discuss it and had sullenly retreated into a bottle of Smirnoff. It had been three weeks, and he'd yet to come out of it.

In the front room, Giles tried desperately to ignore them. Perhaps if he did, they would go away.

He turned his attention back to the task at hand. 

Surrounded by his books, Giles felt better. Glory was a mystery, a conundrum- but she was a mystical problem. And Giles welcomed it. In light of months past, he welcomed a problem he might be able to solve. He'd felt so powerless during Joyce's illness. He had been rendered positively impotent by her death, unable to do anything but spout platitudes and write thank you notes. But the banishment of Glorificus; well, she was a riddle fit to sink his teeth into. If the obnoxious pair in the back room could stop screaming at each other long enough to let him read, he might actually be able to find something. 

"How can you defend him like this?"

Xander was bone weary with the argument.

"He's killed thousands of people, and he doesn't feel the slightest bit ashamed of it. He's tried to kill all of us multiple times, and never even so much as said "I'm sorry." And you stand here telling me that its okay, that he ought to be forgiven just cause he's not eating people anymore? What about all the ones he DID eat, Anya; have you forgotten them?"

She shook her head at him. 

"No, Xander. I haven't forgotten. But I think You're forgetting what he's done for us, and for Buffy. I think it ought to count for something. He's adjusting badly, I know, but give him a chance-"

"Adjusting badly? Anya, he's drunk all the time. He never goes anyplace, he just lies on Buffy's couch watching TV. Eating her food, drinking beer he buys with her money-"

"THAT's the problem, isn't it? He's living with Buffy and you're jealous!"

The hurt in her voice was gut wrenching. He struggled to defend himself.

"No, An, it's not about Buffy. Well it is, but not like that. It's not like that. It's just,"

He lowered his voice, trying to think of a way to get his point across without upsetting Anya any further. He'd been on the couch since Friday and he'd had hopes they could patch things up tonight. That's why he'd come in to help her do inventory today. 

" He's USING Buffy. He sponges off her like a big- Sponge,thing. He's sucking up her money and her energy, making her all worried about him when she needs all her attention for more important stuff. I mean, B's working her ass off, at the Gallery, and patrolling, and trying to keep up in school, and take care of Dawn. And what does Spike do? He drives Dawn to soccer practice, when he's sober enough.Oh, and he screws Buffy."

He gave her a very pointed look.

" Anya, we have a name for men like that."

"Dawn, where's did you put the little boxes of Macaroni?"

Dawn looked up from her notebook. 

"Dunno. I didn't put the groceries up last night, Spike did."

She watched Buffy grow increasingly more agitated, as she searched the cabinets. Finally Dawn got up from the table, and joined her, looking in the pantry.

"Buffy, if we can't find it, just fix something else."

"Like what?"

Dawn shrugged.

"Or just order a pizza."

Buffy looked over at Dawn, murder in her gaze.

"Look, the schedule says this is fish and macaroni night. Pizza night is Friday. If we order pizza tonight, then it messes up the whole week."

She sighed, running a hand through her hair. 

"Look, just go wake him up and ask him where he put the boxes, okay? While you're at it, tell him not to use the Palmolive for pots and pans anymore, it's for the glasses. The Dawn is for pots and pans."

Dawn nodded. She'd learned since Mom's death, to pick her battles carefully. If Buffy wanted to come unglued over dinner schedules and dishwashing liquids, she wasn't going to argue about it. Giles had explained it to her, it was a "Coping Mechanism". When Buffy wigged over scuffs on the floor, or improperly folded laundry, she was really wigging about losing Mom. 

Dawn understood that better than anyone could imagine. She had her own "coping mechanisms". 

She wandered into the living room, over to the couch.

Her sister's boyfriend was sprawled out on it, snoring, a can of beer in his hand. Three more littered the surface of the coffee table, alongside an ashtray full of butts. 

Dawn prodded his shoulder with a forefinger.

"Spike. Hey, Spike. Wake up."

He mumbled in his sleep, shifting. He tried to turn over on the couch, and she barely managed to grab the beer before he could pour it out onto the furniture. 

"Get up, drunkard."

Her tone implied derision and scorn. He'd once been her hero. But the hero had clay feet; in the weeks he'd been here, she'd seen little of the man she'd admired in him.

He rolled over and peered blearily out at her from behind a three- day binge. 

"Nibblet?"

Her heart rolled over. When he looked at her like that, she wanted to forgive him anything. But it was hard, so hard to see him like this.

"Get up. Buffy wants to know where you put the mac 'n' cheese."

He stared at her for a minute like he didn't know what she was talking about. Then he sort of rolled off the couch, to his feet, and staggered into the kitchen.

The smell of fish sticks in the oven was repulsive when combined with the boiling green beans on the stove. The addition of onions nearly did him in; he gagged. Beer. He needed a beer, where was his beer?

Lurching over to the fridge, he greeted the Slayer.

" 'ello Buffy." 

He popped the tab on the can, and let the cool taste cleanse the inside of his mouth. The food smells in the kitchen became more bearable.

"Well, look who's up for the day!"

She looked down at her wrist, her face full of false cheer.

"And you know? It's not even six thirty yet." 

He ignored the jab. It was nothing new. When they weren't shagging, they were fighting. If he let it go for now, she might play nice until after dinner. Besides, witty comebacks took brain cells he was currently pickling. He didn't want to go up against her in a verbal sparring match; there was no way he'd win.

"Where'd you put the boxed mac n cheese last night?"

Think, Spike. Blue box, yaay big. Where is it?

In an attempt to placate her, and stop her continual whining about how worthless he was, he'd unloaded the groceries last night and washed up the dishes. Unfortunately he'd been drunk off his arse at the time, and had no idea where anything was in any of the cabinets. 

He started opening them randomly, and Buffy groaned. 

"Forget it. Look, can you just pull yourself together long enough to set the table?"

He retrieved plates and cups, arranging them onto the tablecloth.

Then he got his ashtray, and sat down at the kitchen table, lighting up. He regarded Dawn, sitting across from him, as she poured over algebra homework. School was out, but the stress of past months had lowered her grades. In order to stay with her class next year, she had two summer courses to complete. 

" 'Ow's it coming, then?"

He motioned with his cigarette towards her notebook.

She shrugged back at him. 

"I don't know. Okay I guess. Summer school sucks, what else is new?"

Okay, that line of conversation wasn't going anywhere. Except to make Buffy angry when she notices that Dawn said "Sucks." She'll probably blame that on me too, he thought glumly.

"A- Ha! Target acquired!"

Buffy stood triumphantly clutching the Kraft box. 

Spike raised an eyebrow at her.

"Bully for you."

She shot him a disapproving gaze.

"You know, I don't HAVE to feed you."

He rolled his eyes at her, and then noticed the pan on the stove.

"Buffy, the beans are boiling over."

"Damn!" she hissed quietly, racing to turn them down. They'd boiled onto the stove, and that would be a bitch to clean up once it'd cooked onto the surface.

He watched her add the macaroni to boiling water, and turn the timer on. Then she came over to join them at the table, resting her hand on the back of his chair.

"How's the homework, Dawn?"

Her sister just looked at her.

"I don't know, Buffy. It's homework. How do you think it is?"

Buffy tried to ignore the sarcasm. It was Dawn's way these days; everything that came out her mouth came out ugly. Buffy put on a bright smile for her.

"Well, you don't have much more of it. Just think, this time next month you'll be back at the high school."

"Yeah. I can hardly contain myself."

The deadpan delivery was perfect, and Spike struggled not to laugh. Buffy would not like it if he laughed.

His cigarette smoke wafted up, drawn by the cooking vents and the fan. 

Behind him, Buffy choked.

Dawn was reacted instantly, all traces of disaffected teenager purged in sisterly concern.

""Buffy? You okay?"

Buffy nodded, and Spike turned around to look at her. She was pasty white, her eyes watering. 

"You don't look good, love. Here, sit down."

He tried to pull her down into the chair but she jerked out of his hands, and fled the room.

He rose to follow her, but Dawn stopped him.

"I think she might be getting sick. Why don't you watch the food, I'll take her some water," she said, as she filled a glass at the sink. 

He nodded, and went to stir the macaroni.

The stench of the onions was enough to make anybody sick, he reflected. 


	24. Hearsay

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn 24 "Hearsay"

AUTHOR: Nmissi  
PART:24/?

DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,   
what makes you think I'd share him with you?  
DISTRIBUTION: Want it? Take it. Just let me know where it's going.

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com  
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

" Would you just look at this!"

Cordelia waggled the statement at Gunn. 

"Three hundred dollars at "the fashionable male". Six hundred dollars at the shoeshop. And this is the last straw…

a fifty dollar tip to the hairstylist."

"He looks good, but not THAT good."

Gunn nodded at her, before making his pronouncement.

"I think Dude's got himself a Woman."

Cordy and Wesley looked at each other, disbelieving.

"I don't know-" began Cordelia.

"I think that's very unlikely." Scoffed Wesley.

"Think about it for a minute." Gunn continued,

"He's spending money all over town, running up credit card bills at swanky hotels and theatres. He's went out and bought himself a new wardrobe. He's leaving the hotel at weird times, bein' all secretive and shit. You can't get hold of him half the time, and when you're talking to him sometimes dude's just not THERE, you know?"

"I'll grant you Angel's been a bit distracted, lately, but-"

Gunn cut Wesley off midsentence.

"It's gotta be a woman. Ain't nothing messes with Angel's head like the fillies."

Cordy wrinkled her nose, shuffling mail angrily about on her desk.

"I think he's right, Wes. Prob'ly some empty headed little blonde thing."

She rolled her eyes. 

"At least he's consistent."

She shot Wes a hard look.

"When's the last time you saw that lady police officer?"

He could hear his child puttering around the apartment, putting stuff into boxes and bags. Something crashed, and he heard low laughter. He followed it into the bedroom, where Lindsay stood over a broken lamp.

"Always hated this thing anyway." 

He chucked it over his shoulder and it clattered to the floor. 

Angel lounged in the doorway, bemused. 

"She really didn't leave you very much, did she?"

Lindsay shook his head, as he collected a photo album from the nightstand.

"No, she didn't."

Angel sighed quietly.

"That's her way. I remember in Paris once… She and I got into a tiff over Drusilla, some stupid thing."

He shrugged.

"I came back to the hotel room, found she'd cleaned me out. Nothing left in our stash, no money, no jewelry."

He smiled, bitter in remembrance.

"She even took my clothes."

Lindsay bent his head to look back at him, his liquid gaze inscrutable.

"What'd she do with them?"

Angel stepped away from the door, into the room. He folded up one of the silk shirts in the pile.

"I guess she sold them. Why do you want to keep these, anyway? I bought you better."

Lindsay smiled at him then, and responded.

"Because they're mine. I paid for them."

Angel shrugged. 

"Whatever. It's just-"

He held one offending garment up accusingly.

"I'd think you might want to be free of reminders of Wolfram and Hart."

Lindsay's gaze hardened.

"No, Angel. I don't want to forget them. I don't ever want to forget them."

There was something in his voice, something hard and sad and ugly. Quickly Angel tried to steer him away from the subject. He wanted to avoid the depression that Lindsay seemed to fall into with regularity. Something would be said, and suddenly Lindsay's conscience would kick him. He'd retreat into silence, refusing to eat or speak, failing to respond to violence or affection. Angel himself knew the depths to which one could sink in such straits; he'd been there himself for decades after his soul returned. But he had had no one to help him, no one to pull him up from the depths. No one until Buffy. His love for her had given him purpose. 

And Lindsay would have purpose too. He need not spend a century lamenting his evils; he could undertake RIGHT NOW to redeem himself. And his sire was there to help him through it.

For who else in all the world could understand Lindsay like Angel? They were two of a kind, unique, a new species of monster. 

Angel wished desperately to confide in someone. Wesley or Giles, either one might have insight into the situation. Angel had such questions to ask, ideas to debate. Had Lindsay retrieved his soul because of Angel's curse? That was most likely the case. But his was an unusual situation. He'd been a soulless human; would a normal human made in the blood be ensouled? Or was Lindsay the result of a combination of factors; his soulless state, and Angel's curse.

In the years since he regained a soul, he'd not once made a child. What might have been the result if he had?

Could it happen again?

Lindsay had moved on to the kitchen at this point. Angel followed him.

He watched as his child selected two champagne glasses from the cabinet; good crystal, by the looks of them. Then he took down a shot glass with a horse on it. These three items he wrapped carefully in a kitchen towel, and placed into the box he'd carried from the bedroom. 

He turned around and smiled warmly at his maker.

"I think I'm all done here now. "

Angel hefted a couple of boxes. 

"Let's go."


	25. Drama

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn 25 "Drama"

AUTHOR: Nmissi  
PART:25/?

DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,   
what makes you think I'd share him with you?  
DISTRIBUTION: Want it? Take it. Just let me know where it's going.

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com  
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

"Look. All you have to do is sit there and look halfway decent. Do you think you can do that for me? Can you?"

She regarded him with disgust, from the passenger's seat. In the ten minutes they'd been in the car, he'd been rude and hateful. He didn't like the dress she was wearing. He didn't like her perfume. He didn't like the gallery. He didn't like cocktail parties and he didn't like wearing a tie.

She ignored his scowl, and reached for the radio knob.

"Take your hands off that," he growled.

She ignored him and twisted the dial until she found some innocuous pop music. He groaned loudly and reached over her hand, fiddling with the tape player.

Strains of Smashing Pumpkins wafted through the car, and she gritted her teeth.

"I will not listen to this shit."

He looked over at her, raising his eyebrow.

"You won't? Well, love, you're always free to get out."

He gave her an ugly smirk.

"And what luck- There's the bus stop."

He'd had enough of her, he had. Dressing him up like a poncy fairy, making him go to a soiree at the gallery tonight. She'd recombed his hair, and smelled his breath for liquor. She'd confiscated his flask. 

She'd made him put on ugly shoes and an even uglier necktie.

He drew back from his ruminations when he realized she was trying to open the car door- while it was moving.

"Bloody hell! What are you doing?"

He slowed suddenly as she wrenched open the door. He was barely quick enough to seize her arm; keeping her inside the car. 

She turned wet blue eyes on him. 

"I'm getting out and walking. Like you said- There's the bus stop."

He hadn't meant it. And she had to know he hadn't. He was just angry. But he wasn't angry anymore; just ashamed. He'd hurt her feelings again. He seemed to do that a lot these days.

"I'm sorry, baby. I didn't mean it."

He released her elbow and she slumped back against the seat. Her lip shaking, her eyes moist, she was a picture of wounded femininity. He felt like a heel.

"Here. You can listen to your music, okay?" 

He fiddled with the dial, hunting for that crap she liked to listen to. 

"I don't want to anymore."

Her voice was small, but steely. She was hurt, yes- But she was still angry. Spike felt slightly better. Anger he could work with. He was utterly helpless before tears.

He switched it off, and reached for her hand.

"Okay. No music, then. We'll just go on, alright?"

She released him, and pulled slightly towards the car door. Looking out the windshield she spoke to him.

"If you don't want to go, you don't have to. I could go alone. It's no big. Or I could call someone else, get someone else to escort me."

So, she thought she could make him jealous? Managing Bitch. 

Then he realized he was jealous, and he cringed. He was as pussywhipped as Angelus.

Buffy said Jump, he jumped. 

Buffy said, "take out the trash", and he tied up little white trash bags carefully with red twisty ties, and hauled the cans out to the curb every Wednesday morning.

She said, " You need a tie for Thursday," and he went out and picked one that coordinated with her ugly dress.

It galled him.

But the thought of her going anywhere with anyone else was not to be borne. She might be a bitch, yes.She was also Pushy, Manipulative, and Mouthy-

But she was his. And he loved her. 

And if he didn't fix things between them soon, it was going to get ugly.

"Look, love. I'm sorry. I'm not used to being around people, not like this- thing- tonight." 

He tried to catch her eyes, but she wouldn't look at him. He had to make her understand.

"I mean, the last time I attended anything like this, I ATE the partygoers."

Her face tightened up, and her spine stiffened.

"Spike, I don't want to talk about how much you hate humans tonight, okay? If you're going to go with me, you're going to have to cool it. Because otherwise I think I might kill you."

Her voice was light, but the meaning was clear. Be a good boy, Spike, or else. 

He kept pushing her limits, but he'd yet to find out what "Else" was. 

"I get it. 'Mind my p's and q's'. Will do."

He slid a glimpse over at her as he pulled the car back onto the road.

"I just hope this whole thing is worth all the trouble."

She scooted a little closer to him.

"It is. We're unveiling a new artist tonight. There should be people there from several major L.A. galleries, and I expect some press people, maybe even a news crew. It can't hurt anything, it's free advertising." 

She was being very nonchalant about it all, but he knew her nervousness. It was evident in the tilt of her head, the drumming of her fingers, the shrillness of her voice. This was the first time since her mother died that the Gallery had hosted a major event; Tonight's success or lack thereof would be perceived as a reflection of her business acuity. 

She'd spent most of the afternoon methodically waxing the stairs, and folding laundry. Tonight she'd changed her hairstyle twice, her dress once. 

Her shoes he'd spent an hour trying to locate in the closet, because no other pair would do.

"How do you feel about "The Lion King"?

Willow waved the videotape before her, and Dawn groaned.

"Uh- like maybe I'm too old for it?"

Willow's face fell.

"Oh."

It was evident she was disappointed.

Tara interjected.

"Will really likes the movie, is all. That whole 'Circle of Life' thing, really groovy."

Her glance at Willow was full of warm affection.

"Look, if you guys wanna watch it, that's cool. I have stuff I can do. Homeworky-type stuff. You go ahead."

She smiled at them reassuringly, and waited to see if they believed the smile.

They did, because Willow reached over to her and squeezed her shoulder. 

"S'okay, Dawn. We've seen it before. It just seemed like something we could all do together."

Dawn shrugged.

"You don't have to entertain me. I know you're only here because Glory's out there somewhere, and I can't be left alone, etcetera, etcetera, ad puke. I think Spike had the better idea."

Willow's forehead crinkled.

"What idea was that?"

Dawn gave her blank innocence with her expression.

"He offered to hire me some hitmen bodyguards. Demon guys he knows from waay back."

Tara and Willow exchanged wordless disapproval above Dawn's head. 

Tara spoke up.

"Dawn, about Spike…How are things going with that?"

Willow jumped in.

"Umm. Yeah. I mean- We've all kinda wondered. How's Buffy doing with him?"

Dawn's loyalty to her family warred with concern for her sister. She didn't know how much Buffy was confiding in her friends these days. If she discussed the situation at home with them, would she be betraying a confidence? Buffy hadn't really told her anything, she didn't talk to her about Spike. But living with them, Dawn saw things, heard things. And she was getting worried about her sister.

"Um. I don't really know if I should discuss them with you guys."

She realized how bad that sounded.

"I mean, it's not that I think you'd say anything, or do anything- Cos I don't. I mean, I trust you guys both totally. So does Buffy. Its just-"

Tara tried to be encouraging.  
"It's just that, if Buffy hasn't talked to us about stuff, you don't feel right talking to us about it behind her back."

Dawn nodded her head. 

Tara took the seat at her side.

"Dawn, we don't want you to talk about Buffy behind her back. But we're very concerned about her. She's not calling us back, she never wants to go anywhere with us."

Willow cut in.

"She never wants us to patrol with her anymore."

Then Tara continued.

"And Giles says she hardly speaks to him when she sees him now, that she just goes through the motions, but doesn't really confide in him anymore."

Dawn shook her head.

"She's not really talking to anyone. Not about real stuff. Not about Mom, or Dad, or me or Glory."

Willow's voice dropped to a near whisper.

"Does she talk about that stuff to Spike?"

The pain in her words was deep. She felt like Buffy had abandoned her, and the wound was still fresh.

But Dawn shook her head at that too.

"No. They don't really talk much. Not since they came back together from L.A. They fight, they make-up, they boink. Then they fight some more."

"What do they fight about?" asked Tara.

"Mostly stupid stuff. Like whether Spike used a coaster, and where did she hide his cigarettes. Lately they've been fighting mostly about sex, because Buffy's always tired or sick anymore."

"Buffy's sick?" Willow asked hastily.

Dawn nodded.

"She thinks she's picked up a bug of some kind, something that Slayer-strength isn't kicking. She's been sleeping more lately, and she's thrown up a few times. A lot of time when she wakes up she feels bad, but she feels better later in the day. No fevers or anything."

Dawn shrugged her thin shoulders.

"Spike thinks its cos she works so long at the gallery, and still wants to patrol at night. By the time she's home and done, all she wants to do is go to sleep."

She made a face.

"He's been nagging her about it, and the fights get pretty loud sometimes."

Tara caught Willow's eye above Dawn's head.

"Why don't you get started on that homework stuff, Dawn. And Willow, I need your help in the kitchen for a sec."

Together they left the room, and Dawn groaned. 

Why did everyone always treat her like a little kid? It was so obvious Tara wanted to go Talk Buffy to Willow, away from Dawn Ears. Like there was anything she didn't already know by now. 

She could probably curse better than they could.She probably knew more about sex, at least straight sex, than they did. Buffy wasn't particularly quiet about it, and Spike always spoke to her like an adult, on every subject, even that one.

She tiptoed to the doorway, and listened carefully through the plaster.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

Tara nodded, and Willow sat down.

"Oh, this is Bad. This is very bad."

Tara tried to calm her love.

"We don't know anything. She could be sick, really. It could be the flu, or whatever."

Willow was shaking her head back and forth.

"But its not. I thought about this as soon as they came back from L.A.- When he went home with her. I was thinking, "Okay, he's not dead anymore, I wonder if she'll like him better now." I didn't know they'd already, you know. Made with the mattress mambo. But once it was obvious, I shoulda said something to her. I should have-"

"But we did! We tried to talk to her about Spike, when he moved in there."

Willow shook her head.

"We were trying to talk her out of seeing him, or dating him, or whatever they're doing. But we didn't think Practical stuff, nobody told her-"

Tara tried again to console her.

"Sweetie, nobody thought of it because we were all just so shocked. And I kinda thought it'd be over with in a day or so. She'd get sick of him being all bum-like and make him leave."

Willow was disconsolate.

"But gee, Tara- Don't you think we shoulda, I don't know- Maybe asked her? Just a little reminder, "Hey, he's not dead now, maybe you should be careful.?"

Tara took her lover tightly into her arms. 

"Don't worry about it. We don't know anything yet. It might not be that."

Willow sniffled against her collarbone.

"But I think it is, Tara. I really think it is."

Tara kissed her forehead lovingly.

"Well that's about what she should expect from taking up with a man."

Willow raised her head up sharply, and Tara smiled down at her.

"I was kidding, honey. See, you're all serious and weepy. I can't have that."

She kissed her warmly.

On the other side of the wall, Dawn checked her watch, and hoped the party would be over soon. She really, REALLY needed to talk to Buffy.


	26. Intervention

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn 26 "Intervention"

AUTHOR: Nmissi  
PART:26/?

DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,   
what makes you think I'd share him with you?  
DISTRIBUTION: Want it? Take it. Just let me know where it's going.

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com  
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

NOTE: I love Spike. I adore Spike. I do not hate Him.I am a redemptionista and a B/S Shipper.I am Not David Fury. Hate mail will be used to line catboxes. 

This has to work. It's our last chance, and something's gotta give. One way or another, it stops here.

Xander's thoughts were linear, his resolve firm. The man beside him was even clearer on his motivation, his jaw firm, his mind made up. It didn't matter what it cost him, Giles had a plan to solve The Spike Problem.

They pulled up in the drive, and climbed out into the noonday sun. Xander pulled a duffel bag from the backseat, and together they mounted the porch steps.

No one answered the first knock. Or the second. Some ten minutes later, Giles reluctantly brought a key out of his coat pocket and unlocked the deadbolt. 

"I was rather hoping he'd just answer the door," he explained.

Xander pushed in through the door. Giles followed him in, and shut the door quietly behind, locking it once more.

There was no sign of their quarry in the living room. Xander looked back at the older man, and found him at the bottom of the stairs, gazing upwards.

"You think-"

Giles looked down, and nodded. His body language clearly conveyed his discomfort, but he mounted the steps gamely. Hefting the black duffel, Xander trailed along behind him.

They found Spike sprawled out in Joyce's bed, sound asleep, his snore reverberating softly in the room. 

" Hey, Evil Notdead…Get Up."

Xander shook Spike with uncharacteristic roughness. The blonde head lolled on the pillow for some minutes, before it lifted and looked Xander in the eyes.

"Sod off."

Giles strode up to the bedside, and Xander moved out of his way. He put a hand on Spike's shoulder and heaved him upward, into a sitting position. The bedsheet gave way, exposing its wearer entirely.

"Oh dear lord."   
Giles sort of dropped him and looked heavenward.

"Get dressed and come downstairs. We must speak with you."

"Okay. So I've made out the check to Caritas. I've restocked petty cash, and paid your credit card bill. The phone bill is still due, but until you get us another stub; I can't do anything about that. You really should be more careful, Angel."

Angel nodded, paying only moderate attention. Cordy was at him about money again.

"I mean, you're HOW many hundreds of years old? Shouldn't you be a little more responsible now? Like enough to not lose the phone bill?"

He looked at her from underneath heavy brows. 

"I didn't misplace it. I spilled blood all over it."

She was taken aback by the disclosure.

"Oh."

Collecting herself, she resumed the tirade. 

"Well then, you should be more careful with stuff like that. "

He went back to ignoring her as he leafed through the mail on her desk. He tried his best to be thorough, yet not obvious, as he hunted for the MasterCard bill. Where the hell was it?

"And something else, Angel."

Uh oh. He didn't care for that look on her face.

"Look, I know it's your personal life, and its none of my business-"

He arched a brow at her.

"When did you ever let that stop you?"

"Don't worry, it won't stop me now either. It's just-"

She waved at him with the sought-after credit card statement.

"Honestly Angel- Six hundred dollars at "The fashionable Male". Two hundred dollars on shoes. And what is this with the hundred dollar haircut?"

She eyed his gelled locks with distaste.

"It doesn't look that good."

She stepped from behind the desk, a look of understanding in her eyes.

"I know how hard it is to live within your means. But Angel, we need to have a talk."

She took up a sheaf of small paper slips off the desktop.

"These are called "Coupons". They're what the rest of the world uses to save cash, okay? And some of them are pretty darn nifty. Lookie- Your Italian shoes? I could have got them here for 10% off your total purchase." 

She waggled a coupon at him.

"Maybe if you could learn to live like the rest of us mortals, you could afford to give me a raise."

"Cordelia, you have an expense account and use of a company car. You don't need a raise. I even pay for your manicures and your haircolor-"

"I do not color my hair!"

He glared at her and she sniffed.

"It's just highlights."

She sighed at him again.

"Will you just try this? I've clipped coupons for all your favorite stores, and I've got repeat customer cards for your hairdresser. Will you just try this, and see how much money you save?"

He looked at her dubiously. Every since she'd gone to work in his office, she'd acquired a passion for saving money. It meant nothing to him, but to her, wasted money was somehow sinful. His over expenditure on the credit card bothered her on a deeply personal level.

"Look, most normal humans are a LITTLE concerned about money. Just try to think of it as practicing."

He didn't follow. 

"Practicing for what?"

She rolled her eyes at him.

"For Shanshu, silly. For when you get to be Human Again, remember?"

His gaze dropped, along with his heart. 

"Oh. That."

Spike trudged down the stairs, and into the living room, garbed in black jeans and a t-shirt with what looked like moth-holes eaten through it. Surveying the room's two occupants, his eyes narrowed, and his guard went up.

"What d'you want?"

They were standing in the living room, lying in wait for him. He tensed automatically. The last time he'd seen Xander, he'd been tossing him out of the Magic Shop into the daylight. The last time he'd seen Giles, he'd been exposed to that time honored tradition; the cut-direct. 

He didn't know people still did that. Surprisingly, the whole cold shoulder bit was as painful now as it had been in his youth. 

He looked back and forth, studying his foes. Xander seemed keyed-up, antsy. Giles was deathly calm, his eyes bright with something. Anger? Anticipation? 

Best to find out now.

He got an ashtray and a beer, and sat down with them in a chair.

"Well, you're here. I'm here. Get on with it."

Giles looked at Xander, and nodded. The boy placed the duffle on the coffee table. The only sound in the room was the metallic zing as he unzipped it, and then stepped away.

Giles eyes and voice were ice, as he addressed Spike.

"In this bag is one hundred thousand dollars in cash. It is all that I have saved, everything in my retirement fund, and what equity I have in the store."

He paused, searching Spike's face for some sign he understood where this was going, before continuing.

"It's yours, if you'll leave Sunnydale, and Buffy, for good."

Spike choked on his cigarette smoke. Whatever he'd expected, this was definitely not it. 

Then anger began to grow in him. Rather than letting it out in the form of some nice physical violence, he chose to vent verbally.

"So mate; that's all the Watchers Council give you?"

His cigarette gestured toward the bag.

"What, no IRA, no 401K? Poncy buggers work you your whole life, and that's all you have to show for it?"

He scoffed.

"I guess you'll be really needing that social security, now, won't you?"

His voice was full of the derision and disgust he felt so fiercely. He deliberately goaded the watcher, leading him onward with barbs and slurs.

"Always knew you lot were a bunch of cheap bastards. Still," 

Here he took a thoughtful puff of smoke, considering.

"You'd think they could afford better. 'Specially what with what they must save in not having to pay retirement for slayers 'n all."

He stopped a moment.

"Hey, you blokes don't even pay her a salary, do you? That's right stingy, you know? Send a girl to save the world, bust her bum for a decade and then get popped off in combat- and you lot don't even offer minimum wage or a healthcare package."

He shook his head sadly.

"Shame about that, though, really. If your Watchers' Council actually paid her a living, she might not be out hawking pottery and picture frames."

Giles sighed wearily.

"Spike, this is not about Buffy."

Spike narrowed his eyes.

"Yeah, it is. You're trying to buy her."

The watcher shook his head.

"No, Spike. I'm trying to save her. I'm trying to remove a destructive influence in her life, before things get any more difficult."

"You call it what you like. But I'm not leaving, and the slayer's not up for bids."

He stood, picking the bag up and throwing it at Xander.

"You can take your bribe and go now, Watcher. You're done here."

Giles was angry now. He'd been so certain this would work. 

"You're destroying her, you know that, don't you? Every day she's with you, a little piece of her spirit dies. Buffy is a good, moral, decent person. You are decidedly none of those things. She compromises herself just by associating with you."

The old man was up in his face, now.

"I'll not let you ruin everything that is good in her. You'll end this, now. I want you out of her life."

His voice was sharp enough to slice glass.

"You take that money and go."

Spike snarled at Giles.

"What d' you think the Slayer would think about your little offer?"

Giles leveled a gaze at him.

"You won't tell her. And she wouldn't believe you if you did."

He paused briefly, then in the calmest, most mild mannered tone, he continued.

"If you refuse me, I shall find alternative means to remove you. I think there's money enough for that." 

Spike sucked in his breath. He didn't know the old man had it in him.

"What, you'll have me killed?"

Giles smiled a Ripper smile, perfectly at ease.

"Would that I could do it myself."

He turned to Xander, who had grown increasingly pale during the conversation. 

"Come. I think Spike needs more time to contemplate our offer."

He moved to leave, the bag still on the table.

"You leave that here, I'll burn it. I swear I will."

Giles turned in the doorway, studying him. 

"Yes, I believe you would." 

He motioned to Xander.

"Get the bag."

The boy complied, bridling visibly under Spike's withering gaze.

"You make a good lackey, boy," he said derisively.

"Shut up. I'll be back to talk to you later."

He meant to sound threatening, but he wasn't quite successful.

To Giles, Spike directed another question.

"You didn't honestly think I'd take it, did you?"

The older man glanced over at him dismissively.

"Yes, Spike. I really did."

Angel knew something was up right away. 

Cordelia was being too sweet. She'd complemented his hairstyle and she'd served him warm blood in crystal. She'd pretended to be interested in his conversation, and she had yet to roll her eyes at him. 

Gunn paced nervously around the room, occasionally looking at his watch.

Finally, Wesley entered, and the tension in the room became even more heightened.

What the hell was going on here?

"Good evening, Angel."

Wes was all politeness, but Angel could see something lurking in those bright eyes, some glint of purpose. Something was going down here tonight, at Wesley's instigation.

"Evening to you, Wesley," he drawled.

"How's it going?"

Wes took a deep breath.

"Actually, Angel, that's what we wanted to talk to you about."

Cordy interrupted suddenly.

"We know about your girlfriend, Angel."

Huh?

She went to her purse, and pulled out papers. She then walked over to him and chucked them into his lap.

"You leased a "love nest", on Divisadero, a one bedroom artist's loft with a view."

"Swanky neighborhood," chimed in Gunn.

She continued.

"You bought two tickets for La Boheme last week, balcony seats. You've run up an account at Llanii; for fresh flowers. Roses and delphiniums, mostly. You spent sixteen hundred dollars in Fantine's for engraved jewelry."

Here she stopped and wrinkled her nose in distaste.

"They wouldn't tell me exactly what you bought. But I did get hold of the order slip for the engraving."

She produced a rumpled carbon, and read aloud, 

Quote:

" to L, who understands."

She tossed this slip at him as well, and put her hands upon her hips as she stared him down.

"Are you trying to say that we don't? Understand? Because I have to tell you, I think that-"

Wesley stilled her tirade with a gentle hand placed upon her arm.

"That's enough, Cordelia."

She stepped back, clearly annoyed.

"Pray take over for me then, Wesley. You go right ahead."

The soft, kindly eyes sought his own.

"Angel, we realize how hard this past year has been on you."

Oh, yes, Wes, I'm sure you think you do, thought Angel impatiently. 

His friend continued.

"But I don't think you've stopped to consider the seriousness of your actions."

Gunn shook his head at him then.

"Man, you just got through that mess with that Darla woman. You don't have it in you to get with some other chick right now. You'll hurt her. You're just reboundin', and that ain't no good for no woman."

Wesley was more direct.

"And have you given thought to the possible consequences?"

He looked so disturbed, that Angel thought momentarily of trying to put him at ease. Then he looked at the order form in his hand, coated in cigarette ash and tinged at the edge with what looked to be mustard. She'd been so desperate to convict him that she'd pawed through the jewelry store's trashcan. It was obscene, and he felt angry and violated. They were his friends, and yet they'd spied on him and followed him as if he were another case. 

He leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms across his chest.

"What consequences?" he asked.

Wesley shook his head wearily.

"Angel, you know that you run the risk of Angelus every time you allow yourself that sort of joy. A romantic relationship is DANGEROUS for you, because it risks unleashing the demon again."

Wesley was genuinely hurt now, and a little scared. It showed in the fierceness of his expression, and the desperation of his eyes. Angel ignored the urge to soothe, in favor of the need to rub their noses in his triumph. They were worried about Lindsay. They need not have been. He'd made a beautiful child, strong and powerful; made in his own image, a soulled creature like himself. 

Maybe he should introduce them.

He smiled at the thought, and that smile unnerved the other men in the room. Cordelia, still pouting, missed the exchange of glances, and so was unprepared for what happened next.

Angel threw back his head and laughed, a long loud laugh that echoed in the tiny office.

"Dude, this is not funny. This is your SOUL we are talkin' about. It ain't like you can run down to the Thornton's and pick up another when you lose this one."

The mirth was unstoppable, now. He laughed so hard his sides ached with it.

" Angel, I do not see this situation as humorous."

He struggled to regain control of himself.  
"You are so wrong. So very wrong. You are so off base it's a joke."

A mortal lover. As if he'd ever take another after Buffy.

He got slowly out of his chair, and moved toward the door.

"Where are you going?" demanded Cordy.

"You're such great snoops, you figure it out." He said.


	27. Trojan Horse

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn 27 "Trojan Horse"

AUTHOR: Nmissi  
PART:27/?

DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,   
what makes you think I'd share him with you?  
DISTRIBUTION: Want it? Take it. Just let me know where it's going.

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com  
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

NOTE: I love Spike. I adore Spike. I do not hate Him.I am a redemptionista and a B/S Shipper.I am Not David Fury. Hate mail will be used to line catboxes. 

They'd discussed the idea at length, well into this morning. Angel was at first violently opposed to the idea, even going so far as to forbid it entirely.

But even he knew they needed the files. Wolfram and Hart possessed information that could be crucial to understanding his birth. Lindsay was convinced of this, and determined to get that information. If this was the only way he could do it, so be it. Lilah was a soulless bitch anyway, no more human than he was; less so, in many ways.

He consoled himself with this thought as he pushed the button for her floor.

In his head, he heard his master's voice.

"If it doesn't work, boy, you know what you have to do."

He felt for the wood in his jacket.

Angel hated this whole plan, but Lindsay had been persuasive. Angel wanted to be up here, taking the chance. But there was No Way On Earth Lilah would ever invite Angel across her threshold.

Lindsay cherished a faint hope she still might invite HIM in. 

Her door loomed before him now, dark wood with an ornate gold lockset and knob, and a peephole. He raised his eyes to it and gave the best performance he was capable of.

His shoulders slumped. His mouth drooped at the edge. His hair was unruly, his clothes rumpled. Together he and Angel had carefully doused him in beer before he entered the building. 

She had to buy this. She had to. 

His mouth was dry with fear of what would happen if she didn't.

His hand pressed the bell.

She opened the door, her eyes guarded and wary.

"Lindsay. What a surprise. I thought you'd be dead by now."

He gave her a drunken grin.

"I'm workin' on it."

Her eyes darted left and right, taking in the empty hallway.

"Shouldn't you be running by now? They let you go two weeks ago. If the hitters haven't caught up with you yet, they're bound to be close by now."

She smiled cruelly.

"And I'd really hate it if they blow your brains all over the wainscoting."

He adopted a hangdog expression. She'd had a fondness for him once, long ago, when they'd first gone to work together. He tried to play on it, hoping against hope there was still some shred of warmth in there for him.

She shut the door in his face.

Damn.

He slumped up against the door. Time for a new tactic.

"Lilah! LILAH!"

His fists smacked the door loudly.

"Open the door, Lilah!"

Then he changed his tone, demanding turning to beseeching. But loudly beseeching. Surely her neighbors could hear him by now.

"Please, Lilah. Open up."

She was still ignoring him.

He leaned over, smacking his head against the door again.

"Shit. I think I'm gonna be sick."

He said this loudly, and the door flew open. He felt his hair tingle as it contacted the invisible barrier between them. He drew back, into a crouching position, looking up at her pathetically. Hers was the face of the supremely pissed off.

He smiled up at her, drunken and sickly like.

"Hi Lilah."

She rolled her eyes at him.

"Get in here before somebody sees you. And if you throw up on anything I will throw you off the balcony. Got it?"

'Guess that suffices for an invitation', he thought.

He stumbled in on his hands and knees.

"We just want to ask you some questions, Merle, please. We'll pay amply for the information, I assure you."

Wesley stood before Cordelia, his hands out in a placating gesture. He wasn't entirely sure what had happened, but something was terribly wrong here. 

Across from him, Merle the informant stood clutching a sawed off shotgun, pointing the business end their way. There were sweat beads on his forehead, and his hands shook alarmingly.

"Look, I don't want no trouble."

He gestured with the rifle towards the open door behind them.

"You two go right back out that door you came in through, and go tell your vampire I don't want nothin' to do with him or his clan. You got me? Nothing. Ain't no amount of money worth my skin, pal. No money worth it."

"We will do just that, Merle. We want no trouble either. But we do want to know who it is that's frightened you so. Perhaps we can help-"  
His laugh was thin and high pitched.

"Oh man, that is a joke. You help me. Funny one. You'll prolly be dead in a day or so anyway."

Behind Wesley, Cordelia was growing gradually more angry. The day wasn't going well for her so far. Angel'd refused to answer the phone last night, and this morning. Gunn had gone in to have his stitches out, and whined the whole way to the doctor's office like a baby. He was currently home sleeping off the sedative they'd had to give him there.

Wesley had been late picking her up, and consequently she'd missed her hair appointment. She had no idea when Lance might could fit her in again, and her highlights were getting coppery.

Now this dweeb was pointing a gun at them and making all kinds of dire predictions, without really telling them anything. She'd had just about enough.

She elbowed Protective!Wesley out of her way, and rushed the demon.

Thank heaven for those self defense courses she'd been taking.

The way his hands were shaking it didn't take long; shortly she had him disarmed. She held the gun on him while Wes restrained him with rope.

"I knew you people were no better'n he was. Tying people up, invading people's homes…"

His nasal whine grated on Cordelia's already frayed nerves.

"Shut up. You don'tget to talk til we tell you to. Right, Wesley?"

He regarded her deferentially.

"Oh. Yes. Quite right, Merle. Unless we ask you to, you need not speak right now."

As he leaned in to tighten the ropes, he whispered in his ear.

"Sorry old man, she's in a dreadful mood this morning. Please be careful," and smiled at the prisoner apologetically.

The prisoner squirmed in his chair, ropes tightening against him as he moved. Seeing this, he made a face, then sagged back against the seat, defeated.

"All right. I'll talk. What do you wanna know?"

Cordy giggled. She couldn't help it. He just sounded like something out of a bad mob movie.

His annoyed expression emphasized that he didn't share her sense of humor. She cleared her throat, and got businesslike.

"Okay. Let's just start with the questions we CAME here to ask you."

He expression brightened slightly.

"Will I still get paid?"

Wes interrupted, irritation in his words.

"Yes, you'll be paid the usual rate. Firstly, What can you tell us about the attack on Caritas?"

He sighed.

"Look. I wasn't there. I didn't have nothing to do with it-"

Cordy sat down on his tv set, perching precariously.

"Hey! Don't do that! You're gonna make it tip over!"

She aimed the gun back at him. 

"Wesley, Why can't I shoot him now?"

In a patient voice he answered her.

"Because he hasn't answered all our questions yet, Cordelia."

Yes, but he'd insinuated she was fat. Grounds for a bullet wound if ever she'd heard any.

She looked daggers at the demon, and scooted back in her makeshift seat.

"We KNOW you didn't do the hit on Caritas. We saw the shooters. Humans, mostly."

She tossed her hair and fliply continued.

"Besides, you're not smart enough to pull off something big time."

He took umbrage to that.

"Hey, I'm VERY big time. I'll have you know I coulda done it, without leavin'all those witnesses, I coulda-"

She waved him down with one hand.

"Enough of that. Okay, you're the big bad, yada yada…Can we move on now? What do you know about Caritas?"

He sighed.

"Look, it was on the street for a few days before it came down, that there was gonna be a major thing coming down. Caritas was just bad luck, bad timing."

His gaze was leveled at Cordy.

"They were after your boss, and anyone with him."

Then he shrugged.

"Caritas was just the place, all those people, just in the way." 

He looked sad for a minute.

"Hate that. Nice place it was, you could go there, have a few drinks, sing a few songs…"

She cut him off.

"Sorry about you losing your beer joint."

She smiled breezily.

"But moving right along, what else do you know? Who ordered the hit? Who took it? Is it still out there, is somebody still-"

The demon was nodding his head.

" – Gunning for Angel. Yeah, it's still on. One of your guys is supposed to have whacked all their knights, so the money's back on the street looking for a new taker. But the hits out there, everybody knows about it." 

The look in his eyes was chilling, as he added,

"If I were you guys, I'd hightail it out of L.A. and stay real far away from Angel. The deal is for himself, and his kin. You don't wanna get mistaken for his kin."

It had gone so easily. She'd never even suspected him, not for a moment. 

He'd come on to her, drunkenly groping. And as she flinched from him, he'd seized her, pulling her close to him. Her knee was fast, but not that fast. He dodged it even as he brought her neck to his mouth, his fangs descending, piercing the skin, and ripping it in his haste. 

The blood flowed into his mouth, a hot red liquor that he'd not experienced since his turning. She tasted like sex and power, her skin was like stroking silk. Her initial struggles only served to fan his ardor, and he pressed himself against her, damning the layers of fabric in his way.

Once, a long time ago, she'd been innocent. There were still traces of it within her, hints of purity in her blood. He saw glimpses as he drank, scenes from a life sold for affluence and influence.

He saw her childhood, scenes so idyllic they made his heart hurt. He saw her graduation from law school. How idealistic she'd been. Full of the very best intentions, she'd wanted to right all the wrongs, to better the world.

He saw her initiation into the firm, and felt blessed. She'd been a virgin sacrifice. Some hideous demon had known her body before he took her soul. The image made Lindsay shudder. The fear and pain of her experience made him want to weep.

She moaned under his mouth, and he felt the tremors shake her body. The pleasure of the draining could be intense; he knew that. He caressed her , soothing as he fed.

He felt her heart waning, and pulled himself free. His yellow eyes sought her gaze.

" If I could give you back your soul, would you want it?"

She lay limp in his arms, too weak to move or speak. Damn. He should have asked her sooner.

He took the penknife from his pocket, bumping the stake alongside it with his hand. Pray God he would not need it.

Then he sliced his collarbone, and dropped the knife. He ran his fingers through the blood, and showed her his hands.

Her eyes grew wide; she knew what he was doing.

He wiped the blood on her lips, and inserted his finger into her mouth. She slowly sucked at it, first gently, then more insistently.

He seized the back of her head, and brought her mouth to his neck. She slurped at him desperately, greedily.

He buried his fangs back into her neck, and the pleasure was tenfold, as the blood closed the circle, flowing in both directions. 

The sagged to the floor together, in a heap.


	28. The Annual Review

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn 28 "The Annual Review"

AUTHOR: Nmissi  
PART:28/?

DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,   
what makes you think I'd share him with you?  
DISTRIBUTION: Want it? Take it. Just let me know where it's going.

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com  
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

NOTE: I love Spike. I adore Spike. I do not hate Him.I am a redemptionista and a B/S Shipper.I am Not David Fury. Hate mail will be used to line catboxes. 

There were eleven beings seated around a long rosewood table inside the law offices of Wolfram and Hart. A twelfth seat stood empty, the gap as noticeable in the room as an absent tooth in an otherwise beautiful smile.

A tall man headed the table, visibly nonhuman only by the color of his skin, a high-toned greenish grey. He wore an expensive three-piece suit, and an emerald signet ring. 

He looked over the remainder of the assemblage, before calling the meeting to order.

"Thank you for joining me here today."

He turned his head, addressing a small brunette woman behind him.

"Would you please read the minutes of the last board meeting, Ms. Smith."

She did so, then retired to the back of the room to take notes for the duration of the meeting.

"Firstly, I would like to congratulate us all on a very successful year. If you'll please take up the briefing before you,"

At this, the room's occupants collected leatherbound folios from the table, and opened them. The sounds of turning pages filled the room. Then the leader continued.

"You'll see this has been a very profitable period for the the Firm. Gross profits are up 27%, across the board. We've increased our holdings by 20%, and turnover is at a record low. All told, thenew millennium is shaping up to be one of our best."

"There is a proposal on the table, you've all had ample time to acquaint yourselves with its particulars. We will now vote on it."

He dropped something into a gold urn, and then passed it to his left. It circled the room, the metal clink announcing that a vote had been cast each time it changed hands. Finally it returned to the table's head, and he reached into his pocket, and made to cast a second vote.

"As Aurelius' proxy, I cast this vote in his name."

Before he could let go of the stone, he was interrupted.

"Actually, N'aoth, I don't think you should do that."

The speaker was a small woman, with fine features and long fingers. Her unearthly beauty proclaimed her race as Fae.

She rose, and the leader addressed her.

"Speak your piece, Maab." 

His voice was pleasant, but his eyes were cold.

"It has come to my attention that the line of Aurelius has NOT been expunged, as we'd previously been informed."

She swept her luminous green eyes across the assemblage.

"In fact, there are numerous heirs to that bloodline."

The lone vampire at the table curled his elegant hands into fists.

"Pray continue, Lady Maab." 

She smiled at him with gentle remonstrance.

"Vlad, I should think you'd be very pleased to hear about your cousins! Now, I have here with me the name and whereabouts of the eldest of Aurelius' lineage. He is called Angel, and he resides right her in the City of Angels, not ten blocks from this very building."

She shook out hair that swept her ankles, as she went on.

"I also list several of his descendants in this very state. Drusilla the Mad, William the Bloody, Darla –"

Vlad cut her off.

"That's impossible. He staked Darla three years ago. And she was his SIRE. Surely if she lives, the seat is hers by right of birth."

"You were aware of this descendant, Vlad?"

She turned amused, twinkling eyes on him.

His wallachian accent was thick upon his words.

"I thought him dead these three years, woman. Angelus heads the rolls in Hell."

"And yet he rolls heads in L.A." she quipped.

Then she added.

"But I was not finished. Darla the reborn, sired out of Drusilla's blood."

She looked over the blue notepad in her hand.

"There is also a newborn named Harmony," she added.

She sank gracefully back into her seat, waiting for the Senior Partners to digest her information. 

"Are you certain of your information, Maab?" questioned N'aoth.

She nodded with a sly smile.

"Utterly certain, gentlemen. But in case there were any doubts,"

She gestured towards the heavy wooden doors, as they opened.

A pretty blonde girl entered the room, garbed in Gucci shoes and a stylish black dress.

"This is Harmony. Harmony, make your curtsey to the gentlemen."

The girl bobbed an awkward bow, and the fairy queen winced.

"Scent her, Vlad. You'll know her bloodline, I'm sure."


	29. Harsh Truths

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn 29 "Harsh Truths"

AUTHOR: Nmissi  
PART:29/?

DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,   
what makes you think I'd share him with you?  
DISTRIBUTION: Want it? Take it. Just let me know where it's going.

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com  
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

NOTE: I love Spike. I adore Spike. I do not hate Him.I am a redemptionista and a B/S Shipper.I am Not David Fury. Hate mail will be used to line catboxes. 

It was pink. The little line in the control window was also pink. 

Two pink lines.

Two tests with two pink lines, lying side by side on the vanity's edge. Like matching toothbrushes, but without bristles.

She picked up the box, and reread the same text she'd already been over thrice. Then she sighed, and tossed both empty boxes into the trash.

"Buffy?"

She looked over at Willow, waiting patiently outside the bathroom door.

"It's the same."

"Oh."

Willow thought for a moment, then approached Buffy smiling nervously.

"Congratulations?"

Buffy dropped the first, then the second test stick into the wastebasket, and brushed her hair back out of her eyes.

"Yeah. Yaay Me."

Willow hugged Buffy close. Behind them, Tara stood uncertainly. She wanted to go to them, but didn't want to intrude. No matter how much time she spent with Buffy, Willow and Buffy had years of history between them. Sometimes she still felt very much the outsider. She was ONE of Buffy's friends. But Willow was The Best Friend. Consequently, Tara stood apart from them at a time like this, waiting to be asked, before she offered herself.

Willow raised her eyes to her lover, and smiled at her in invitation.Buffy looked up, and beckoned her over with one arm. Tara rose, and moved in towards them. 

"Group Hug," announced Willow as Tara wrapped strong arms around them. 

The car moved along Sunnydale back roads steadily, moving its occupants through the half-glow of dusk, towards the other side of town.

"So the way I figure it, you owe me a rematch. And seein' as how you've gone all drunken lush, my odds are improving."

Spike rolled his eyes, but he didn't rise to the bait. Eventually they'd have it out- He'd just rather not do it while Xander's car swerved all about the road.

Instead he settled for lighting up a cigarette, enjoying how the smoke in an enclosed space made Xander's eyes water.

They pulled up outside of the Bronze, and climbed out. Together they entered, and made for the billiard table.

It was early evening. The dinner patrons had all gone home, but the nightclub kids and the nightcreatures were still an hour or so away. That's why Xander had chosen this time of day for their game. It was always better to quarrel with Spike in a room with fewer innocent bystanders. He didn't think this whole "Humanity" thing was likely to have changed things in that respect.

Spike racked, and Xander broke.

"I didn't think you'd take the money, by the way."

He meant it almost apologetically, and it came across in his tone.

Spike quirked an eyebrow at him, his cigarette dangling from his lip as he readied his shot.

"Then why'd you help him do it? Why'd you come along with him?"

The boy shrugged.

"I couldn't talk him out of it. So I came to observe- In case it all gets back to Buffy later, I can tell her the truth."

He gave Spike a look full of meaning.

"I don't really trust either one of you to do that anymore."

The blonde smirked, as Xander's shot banked.

Xander ignored him, and stepped away from the table slightly.

"I told Giles it'd never work. Why should you give up Buffy for money? You don't know how to spend it." 

He made a face.

"You don't really need money for anything except Booze, and Buffy buys you that."

His eyes met Spike's, and Spike saw something in their depths that chilled him.

"You know what I would have done?"

"Enlighten me, please," he drawled.

Xander lined up his next shot.

"There should have been a hypodermic syringe and rope in that bag. I'd have drugged you, trussed you up, drove out into the desert and dumped your ass. You'd have had to figure out how to live as a human, or you wouldn't have had to do it for very long."

He smiled as his shot completed beautifully.

Spike raised his cigarette at him in mock salute.

"You know? That might have Actually Have Worked. Or then again, maybe not."

He moved with superhuman speed to pin Xander Harris up against the pool table, the cue poised to break his windpipe. When he saw the fear flit through his eyes, he smiled at him, and stepped away, offering the cue.

Xander took it, presenting his back to Spike as he readied another shot. Behind him, his opponent added, almost plaintively,

"You know, I do love her. You lot seem to discount that, but its true. She's the only thing I'm living for these days, her and the girl."

His voice held a note of wonder as he explained.

"They're my family."

Xander wheeled on him, furious.

"Since when do they get to be YOUR family, Spike? You were dead for about a hundred years, and you spent the last four of them trying to KILL Buffy. You don't have any family. WE"RE their family. You don't have a right to them."

The smoke rose between them, and Spike's cigarette was one long ash. It fell away from his lip, and as Xander's gaze pulled up from it they met the pain in those blue depths.

"No. I don't. Don't you think I know that?"

He sighed, and ground out the dead cigarette stub into a little aluminum ashtray on the side of the table.

"But it doesn't do any good to pretend like I don't love them. I can't. I did that for years and I'm all done with it. And as long as they'll have me, I'm staying. I don't give a good bloody damn what you Scoobies think about it."

Xander's face tightened as he absorbed the impact of Spike's words. Then he thought for a moment, and spoke carefully to him.

"Then if you're gonna be around awhile, maybe you could try NOT to be such a drag on Buffy. You say you love her- Fine. Let's say I believe you. What have you got to offer her? What kind of a life can you give her? You don't have a job. You don't have a home. Meanwhile Buffy busts her ass to make ends meet, trying to raise Dawn- and what do you do, Spike? What do you contribute around there?"

"Hey, I do my bit. I take out the trash, I mow the lawn…"

Xander cut him off.

"The little stuff you do around there, it doesn't count for much. I tell you what…You get a job. You start paying some bills. You do stuff around the house, and you help her take care of Dawn. You do all that and I'll shut the hell up about what a freeloading loser you've turned out to be, okay?"

Then he considered for a moment. 

"And maybe you oughtta be patrolling for her some. If my new bruise is any indication, you're still pretty damn strong in a fight." He rubbed his side awkwardly where he'd hit the table.

Spike nodded, almost imperceptibly.

Then he questioned,

"So are we gonna do Oprah all night or are you ever going to shut up and play the game?"

Xander hefted the cue.

"I think I've said my piece. Hand me the little blue cube thingie."

Spike rolled his eyes and tossed him the resin.


	30. Disharmony

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn 30 "Disharmony"

AUTHOR: Nmissi  
PART:30/?

DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,   
what makes you think I'd share him with you?  
DISTRIBUTION: Want it? Take it. Just let me know where it's going.

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com  
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

NOTE: I love Spike. I adore Spike. I do not hate Him.I am a redemptionista and a B/S Shipper.I am Not David Fury. Hate mail will be used to line catboxes.

Harmony kicked her shoes off and sank back against the highbacked Victorian sofa, relishing the feel of velvet underneath her.

After all those miserable months in that smelly crypt, she'd never thought to see the likes of this again. But here she was, in a posh hotel in Los Angeles, with room service and cable tv. 

Unlife doesn't get any better than this, she reflected

A knock sounded at the door, and she bounded up. 

"Room service sure is quick here. ' Just a minute," she called, as she rummaged through her purse for a tip.

But she opened the door not on a bellhop, but on a pretty brunette in a stylish business suit.

"Harmony?" she questioned.

The blonde vamp tried to decide whether she should admit to her identity. To the best of her somewhat limited knowledge, only Lady Maab and her minions knew where she was right now.

The brunette realized her mistake, and extended a hand forward.

"Please excuse me, I didn't introduce myself. I'm Lilah Morgan, with Wolfram and Hart? I have some business to go over with you;it shouldn't take long."

She was all ease and friendliness; Harmony felt herself warming to her instinctually. She stepped back, welcoming and gracious.

"Oh. Sorry. Didn't recognize you. Were you at the meeting this morning?"

An odd look passed through Lilah's eyes.

"Unfortunately, no. I was unavoidably detained."

She moved towards the table by the window, and laid her briefcase upon it. She clicked it open, and brought out a stenotape machine.

"I'm here to take your official statement. For the Senior Partners," she explained.

Harmony's brow wrinkled.

"I thought we were doing that tomorrow," she said.

Lilah nodded.

"We've had to adjust our timeframe a bit. Something's come up, and I won't be available in the morning."

She pulled out a seat, and motioned for Harmony to join her. The young vamp did so, and Lilah began a restrained interrogation. 

"You can imagine how surprised and pleased we all were, to learn about you, Harmony. The Seat of Aurelius has been unoccupied for some time. The best information we had indicated the line died out about five years ago. So it was with no small amount of amazement we greeted this morning's disclosure."

Harmony looked at her, confused.

Too many large words, thought the lawyer. Damn. She'd have to come down to the girl's level.

"I mean, it's a very happy day for us at the Firm. We've handled the accounts of the House of Aurelius for many generations. Most of the funds and properties have been locked up in probate for a good while, now." 

She flashed the girl an avaricious grin.

"And locked up accounts don't really experience much activity, as you can well imagine. And if the money doesn't move, we don't get very much of it."

Harmony's eyes glittered.

"You mean, I might, y'know, "Unlock" those accounts?"

Lilah nodded.

"I have papers here to create you an expense account, for the interim- Until everything's settled. But there's a good deal of property to be disposed of amongst the heirs. Homes, jewels, money- I believe there's even a medieval title involved somewhere."

Her shoulders sagged and a sigh of disapproval came into her words.

"Of course, that will likely go to Angel, as the eldest male. All these old bloodlines follow archaic rules of Primogeniture, "Eldest male" heir, you know how it goes."

Then she continued.

"But there's still a tidy sum available for proven descendants. And since there seems to be so few of them, you, my dear, stand to become very rich."

Harmony was so excited she nearly bounced in her seat.

" Wow!"

The pleasure dropped off her face as she struggled to grasp the numbers involved.

"Just how much money are we talking about here?" she asked.

Lilah gave her a toothpaste-commercial smile.

"Millions."

Then she went businesslike again.

"We just need to verify you as a claimant. It's routine procedure. Let's begin with your birth. Who was your sire, Harmony?"

Harmony cast her eyes downward.

"I really, uh, I really don't know. I mean, I didn't get his name."

Sympathy washed over Lilah's face.

"You were orphaned?"

Orphaned. Yeah, that's what Spike called it, the girl thought. When he was feeling all miserable and lonely, and sometimes would be nice to me. He'd say we were both orphans in the world. 

Fucking Asshole. 

Hope he's blistering in the sun.

She looked back up at the lawyer.

"Yeah, I guess so. I woke up in the Moorman Bros. Funeral home."

She'd woken up on a tilted table,her blood being drained into the side groove. A few minutes more, and all she would have had in her veins was embalming fluid. She was grateful they hadn't planned her an autopsy. But it wasn't like her cause of death was a mystery or anything.

The old man in the room, the mortician, she supposed; he'd reacted instantly to her awakening. Apparently it wasn't all that unusual in his line of work- He'd gone for a wooden stake from the instruments table.

To her everlasting shame and horror, she'd been so frightened and hungry she'd eaten him. After he was drained, she'd been physically ill, her mortal self still coming to grips with her demon. She'd vomited in the room, and cried over the body as she stuffed it into the refrigeration unit.Then she'd searched the room, and been pleasantly surprised to find her new DkNy dress there. 

She remembered the horror of putting it on, thinking about her parents. They'd sent it there to have her buried in it, most likely. 

She was dead to them.

Even now, that part was still terribly painful.

Lilah's voice dragged her back to the present.

"What can you tell me about your maker, then? You did see him, didn't you?"

She nodded.

"Just some vamp at Graduation."

She motioned with her hands.

"He was Yaay big, 'bout this tall. Big shoulders."

Lilah licked her lips, and her eyes darkened.

"What did he taste like?" she asked softly.

Harmony's eyes darted away.

"I dunno. Kind of like ice cream. All cold, and wet. His blood was thick, y'know? Really rich, and good."

Lilah nodded imperceptibly.

"Go on. What else do you remember? It is vital we establish your link to the line."

Harmony shrugged.

"I don't know what else I can tell you. I never saw him again."

Lilah pressed onward.

"But why did he make you, why not just kill you?"

Harmony remembered that night very vividly. The way his vamp face fell away as she died in his arms. Such a look of sorrow. She'd almost believe he hadn't meant to kill her, that he wasn't able to control himself. He'd fed her from his arm, and then blackness had claimed her.

She had to believe he'd been staked in the commotion. Surely he would never have left her to rise alone like that, in the funeral home. She sort of thought maybe he'd cared about her, from the look on his face when he bit his arm. He had just looked so damn SORRY about the whole thing.

"I don't really know why. He seemed to feel kinda bad about killing me."

She shrugged.

"Maybe it was his way of making it up to me."

Lilah's phone buzzed, and she reached into the valise to retrieve it. Apologetically she glanced over to Harmony, as she switched off the recorder.

"Sorry. I have to take this."

Harmony nodded.

"Yes? Um Hm. Yes I'm here with her right now."

She put her hand over the receiver.

"It's a coworker, he's got some papers for me. Would you mind if he brought them up? It'll only take a second."

Harmony nodded, waving her hand dismissively.

"Sure. No problem."

Lilah spoke back into the phone.

"Yes. Room 312. We'll be waiting for you."

She turned back to the girl.

" It'll be a few minutes. Tell me, is the hotel to your liking? Is there anything that you need? The firm is most happy to oblige you in whatever way possible."

Harmony ruminated on her circumstances since waking up that night, and decided things were finally looking up for her.

"No, really, you guys have been TOO kind. New clothes, new haven…Fresh blood I didn't have to hunt for. What more could a girl ask for?"

Someone rapped the door.

Lilah rose.

"Do you mind?" 

She made to open it, and Harmony nodded. 

"Go ahead."

Lilah opened it, and let two men into the room.

"Is she?" Angel asked.

Lilah shook her head affirmatively.

"I think so. Vlad I'd'ed her, you know. But you'll know best if she's ours."

Angel advanced upon a now confused Harmony.

"Hey, who are you?"

Her voice rose in anger. 

"Wait a minute, I know you, You're-"

He cut her off as he seized her wrist.

"Your family," he finished for her, as he inhaled the potent smell of her blood.

Looking over his shoulder, he nodded to the pair.

"Looks like she's our girl, Lilah, Lindsay."

His dark eyes sought hers, and put fear in her unbeating heart.

"We're taking you out of here. If you're a good girl, I'll see to it you're well taken care of. If you're not-"

He smiled wickedly.

"If you're not, well, I'll exercise my rights as head of the Line"

He looked at her, and softened his voice.

"Do you know what that means?"

She shook her head fiercely as she struggled to escape his vicelike grip.

"The head of the Bloodline, the Master, he has the power of life and death over his childer. It means if I want to, I can kill you. And no one can contest my right to do so."


	31. Tame

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn 31 "Tame"

AUTHOR: Nmissi  
PART:31/?

DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,   
what makes you think I'd share him with you?  
DISTRIBUTION: Want it? Take it. Just let me know where it's going.

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com  
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

She paused inside the doorway, taking in the scene laid before her with new eyes. The living room, to her left, was disheartening. Beer cans lined the coffee table. Today's newspaper lay spread about the floor, in pieces. As she walked into the room, she tripped over a boot.

Her ire rose with each step. Beer cans. Cigarette ashes on the carpet. Dirty socks in the floor. 

She was supposed to bring a baby into filth like this?

Oh God. Where did that thought come from? Buffy had been very carefully NOT thinking about it as a "Baby". No matter how she juggled the dates, no way could she make this kid Riley's. Which meant that it was Spike's- an irony too twisted to contemplate. 

"There's one the Council of Watchers didn't have a prophecy for." She said to herself, "Nope. I don't think there's a big dusty book out there someplace warning that William the Bloody was going to get a heartbeat and a healthy sperm count."

She picked up the beer cans and tucked them into the crook of her arm, as she went on in to the kitchen. She tossed them at the recycle bin, as Spike greeted her.

"Morning, Sunshine." 

He was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping on a can of Budweiser and reading the classifieds. One bare foot was propped on the edge of the table.

He was also smoking. In fact, the entire room was a little hazy with it.

She sat her purse down on the table, and spoke to him.

"Spike, You can't smoke in the house anymore. You'll have to move it out onto the back porch."

He looked at her in disbelief.

" And just when did you become the poster girl for the temperance society?" he asked.

She looked at him in bewilderment.

"Huh?"

He shook his head at her.

"I mean, it's one thing you giving up the smokes. Fine. Bully for you- Always thought it was a nasty, unfeminine habit for a woman anyway."

She opened her mouth to go off on him, but he shut her down with a glare.

"And hey- More Ciggies for me that way. But what gives? You don't like them anymore, so you're telling me I can't smoke them in here? I have to go lurk in the bushes again?"

He snorted at her.

"That's hypocrisy, Slayer."

Enough. She'd had more than enough. It was choking her in here. She opened the windows and the back door, and flipped on the fan.

He made mocking noises behind her back.

"Oh, come off it, woman. It can't bother you that bad; you were smoking them yourself last week."

She whirled on him, angry and unthinking.

"They're bad for the baby."

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wished them back. This was not the way she'd meant to break the news. Okay, she hadn't really come up with a way to tell him yet, but she was relatively certain this one was not in the top ten recommended ways to inform the prospective parent.

He looked at her askance, his head cocked to one side.

"Come again?" he asked.

She strode over to him, and reached into the side pouch of her purse, pulling out brochures from the clinic, lots of pretty pamphlets detailing her options as a Young Unwed Knockup. Everything from natural childbirth, to legal abortion- All bases covered. It was standard fare at the campus clinic. 

She tossed them out onto the table before him. 

"I'm six weeks pregnant. Put out that damn cigarette before I do it for you; someplace on your skin." 

He ground the fag to a blackened stub, inside the green glass ashtray, and struggled to make sense of what she was saying.

"Buffy, I-"

His brow furrowed, as he searched for the right words. 

"I don't understand."

She gave him an ugly smile, hard and cynical.

"Oh, come ON, Spike. You're how old? I'm sure you know how it works. You've shared my bed for months."

"But I didn't- Buffy I swear- I didn't think we could-"

She shrugged at him then.

"It didn't occur to me either, Spike. I mean, I thought the ONE thing I might not have to worry about, being with a vampire, was the whole "protection" issue. No "Will he or won't he, Should I be the one to bring it up?"

She gave him a hard look.

"Angel had already explained it to me. You guys are dead, and life can't come from dead things."

She turned her back to him, and started stacking dishes in the sink.

"I didn't even consider-."

She stopped filling the sink, and turned back around to him.

He was still sitting at the table, the pile of papers in his hands.

"You know, I'm tired. I think I'm gonna go upstairs and get a nap."

He looked up as she left the room. Then with shaking hands he collected his beer and his ashtray, and went out onto the porch.

They'd penciled her next appointment date onto a little white card. He turned it over in his hand.

Somehow, this made it all more real. He was really human, there would be no going back. He'd been existing in a sort of mental limbo; a vampire in a human shell. He'd counted time in bottles of Jack Daniels, in cans of beer, in cigarette butts.For the first time he realized he was no longer outside of time; but moving with it. He was aging, changing. Every day was one day less he had left to spend on this earth. He would henceforth count time in minutes, days, years. And some sixty or seventy of them from now, he would lie down and die.

If he didn't pop off in a fight sometime before that. Or contract lung cancer. Or get cirrhosis of the liver. 

Yeah, that was more like it. He might still have some demonic strength, some advanced healing abilities- But he was mortal. He could die.

He hadn't really given it a great deal of thought before now. 

His eyes stared out, unseeing, into the morning light. In his mind's eye, he could make out the faces of children, he could see again his sisters and his brothers, as they'd been in life, as they'd been in the nursery, round baby faces, drooling baby smiles, rosy baby cheeks. 

His mind wandered out to the faces of his victims. There were children among their number as well. Angelus LIKED children. And in the first, early years of his turning, William had tried desperately to prove himself to his grandsire, to prove himself demon enough to deserve his affection. 

Oh yes, there had been a great many children in those early years, because Angelus liked the easy kill of a frightened innocent. He'd lacked Spike's taste for the chase and for the battle.

Infants were fragile, and delicate. They got sick easily. They were incredibly breakable. He remembered the feel of their small bodies in his hands, the way their bones crunched-

Spike leaned in to the hydrangea bushes and vomited up two pints of Jack Daniels and half a beer. His stomach heaved itself empty, but the shudders continued, as his brain replayed the events of his past for him in living color. He sprawled on the wooden deck stairs, resting his head against the railing as he fought to catch his breath. 

Finally the dry heaves ceased, and he got slowly, tiredly to his feet. He trudged back inside of the house.

His eyes swept over the countertop, where his bottles of liquor were lined up enticingly. Their colorful bottles promised sweet oblivion, a world without miracles, or babies, or sweet little girls who might die on you one day. They promised to make him forget it all, everything that tormented him. 

But the papers on the table caught his eye again, and he walked over and leafed through them. 

Dietary recommendations. A prescription for prenatal vitamins. "Baby Roulette- What every mother should know about teratogens." 

There was also another booklet, underneath the vitamin prescript. "So you're about to become a family!" 

Apretty couple cuddled on its front cover, clutching a disgustingly pink-cheeked infant. 

"Bollocks. I'm not some domesticated 'Husband'. And I'm definitely not the 'Daddy' type."

Nonetheless, he found himself at the sink again. He washed up the dishes, leaving them on the drainboard to dry. Then he looked over his bottles, and began opening them up. One by one, he poured them each down the sink. Stolichnaya vodka, Jim Beam and Jack Daniels, good Kentucky bourbon and fine malt scotch, all piled into the recycle bin. He then fetched himself a beer from the fridge.

He stopped at one this time. 


	32. Conundrum

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn 32 "Conundrum"

AUTHOR: Nmissi  
PART:32/?

DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,   
what makes you think I'd share him with you?  
DISTRIBUTION: Want it? Take it. Just let me know where it's going.

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com  
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

No matter what he did in this current lifetime, it seemed the dark deeds from his life as Angelus kept coming back on him. Darla; Drusilla; Spike. Now there was Harmony.

That was a laugh. He'd made fledgelings in Sunnydale, during that short return to soullessness. And despite his thoughts to the contrary, they had not all died. One of them, at least, had lived long enough to lead him to this point. That child, or one of his offspring, had joined up with the mayor, and had been present at that disastrous graduation. And so here he stood, several centuries from his origin, and feeling closer to his past than he had in years. 

Lilah's slamming door interrupted his reverie.

"I don't have any sick days left, Angel. They're going to start getting suspicious."

He turned around, enjoying the sight of her. She was pale and lovely, her dark hair gleaming in the moonlight as it poured through the window. She opened the briefcase in front of her, and plugged in the laptop. Gracefully, she sat down before it to work.

He strolled up to her, and stood behind her, watching over her shoulder as she worked.

"I got in to the system, and acquired the notes from this morning's meeting. But I don't think it'll work again. If we want to get the rest of those files, one of us is going to have to get inside the building."

He rested his hand on her shoulder.

"That would be you, Lilah."

She sighed.

"How did I know you were going to say that?"

He squeezed her reassuringly.

"It'll work, Lilah. It has to. Lindsay no longer has access. As soon as they learn about you, you won't either."

She looked up at him.

"What makes you think they don't know already? The contract was broken the minute Junior turned me. I'm neither 'living', nor dead. Nice little loophole, there. I don't see how they could be unaware."

He took a deep and unnecessary breath. 

"They know something important, Lilah, something vital enough to try to kill me and mine. They couldn't corrupt me, couldn't get control of me- So they decided to remove me. I'm certain they were behind the shooting at the club. I'm positive of it. We need that information."

He looked down into her upturned face. She had to understand him, had to realize the importance of this.

" They may know about you, yes. But more importantly, they may be able to tell us why you're like this, why I can make children like Lindsay, why he can make a child like you." 

He tossed his head in the direction of the stairs.

"Moreover, we need to know why they wanted someone like her. What use was she to them?"

Lilah answered him roughly.

"Angel, I should think the answer to that is obvious. She's of the line, and therefore an heir to Aurelius. She's also vapid, shallow, and easy to control. They remove you and the others; she becomes their puppet. All nice and neat."

"Except the Senior Partners didn't know about her until this morning. Only the fairy woman knew." 

He had the pieces laid out on the table, but they weren't coming together to form a picture. Not yet, anyway. There was more to this, something he'd not figured out yet. But he planned to. And he planned to very soon.

Lindsay came in out of the kitchen, carrying two mugs.

"Sorry, Lilah. I didn't know you were back." 

He passed a mug to Angel, and then leaned over Lilah's shoulder.

"ooh. Nice. 'Skipper' still works." 

"How do you know my password?" she asked.

He shrugged.

"I made it my business to know it, my business to know everything there was to know about you. Besides- Once I knew you collected dolls, I just went through the names of all Barbie's little friends until I located the right one."

Angel smirked, and Lilah rolled her eyes. 

"If not for my soon-to-be-fired status, I'd have to do something about that." She said this with a straight face, but Lindsay smiled anyway. He'd come to understand her form of teasing. He kissed the top of her head lightly. 

"You want something to drink?"

She nodded, and he went back into the kitchen. 

"Can you go up and check on Harmony for me? She's probably awake by now. She might be scared, maybe you can put her at ease. We need her on our side, for now."

Lilah groaned, but she got up.

"I feel myself losing brain cells every time she opens her mouth."

Angel smiled at her.

"I wouldn't worry, Lilah. You can spare them."

He watched her head into the kitchen, presumably to fetch that drink Lindsay'd gone after. He looked up at the ceiling, trying to imagine what his 'guest' was doing right now. 

She was decidedly not what he'd expected. Oh, he realized she was very young. But she was one of the most Human demons he'd ever met. 

And despite her lack of a "soul", she didn't really strike him as evil.

It added to the puzzle.

His children emerged from the kitchen, and his eyes drank in the sight of them; beautiful, strong, and crafty; children to be proud of. Lindsay had abandoned the uniform of wall street in favor of blue jeans and a flannel shirt. He looked surprisingly well in such a get up. 

Lilah still dressed in the mode of the corporate killer, all hard angles and dark colors. But there was softness about her, a difference in her expression, in her eyes. She had yet to succumb to guilt, as Lindsay had. It was more as if she'd somehow regained her innocence.

The irony inherent in such a situation could drive one mad, if speculated upon for too long. He'd somehow taken two very evil humans, and made them, well…

Was "Good" too strong a word? He'd infected them with conscience and empathy, and a desire to right their wrongs. 

Yes, he decided. They needed to know more, and they needed to know it now.


	33. Recon

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn 33 "Recon"

AUTHOR: Nmissi  
PART:33/?

DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,   
what makes you think I'd share him with you?  
DISTRIBUTION: Want it? Take it. Just let me know where it's going.

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com  
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

Cordelia moved the empty pizza boxes off of the pile of papers she wanted.

"Guys?"

She held up an orangey-stained list for their inspection.

"Maybe can we NOT sit the greasy pizza box right on TOP of the admissions reports? I mean, I might actually need these things for something."

Gunn hung his head sadly.

"Sorry, C." he said. It had been his idea not to get Chinese again tonight. 

Wesley headed over to survey the damage.

"Yes, well…it seems to have missed our notes. That's a positive sign."

He took the stained sheets from Cordy, and looked them over intently.

"It appears she's branching out into a new area. Admissions are up 22% in Brentwood, now."

Cordy answered him through a mouthful of mozzarella.

"That matches with," she chewed for a moment, and then swallowed loudly. 

"That matches what I picked up at the hospital. They're drowning in Psych consults, having to call in extra staff just to handle the overrun."

Gunn scratched his head, and joined the discussion.

"Man, I don't feel right about this. Just sittin' back, chillin' and compiling statistics like some kinda paranormal census taker. It don't seem right. Not with this little 'g' god runnin' around, makin' people freaky."

Wesley shared his concerns, and was equally uneasy about their inaction. But Giles had told him not to engage Glory, and he respected the watcher's wisdom. 

"Gunn, I do understand how you feel. But we simply aren't equipped to stop her right now. Any action we take would be literal madness, you do realize that, don't you?"

"Yeah, man. I get that. But it still don't sit right, y'know? It feels, I dunno. All cowardly and shit."

There was silence in the room as they all considered this. 

Cordelia broke it after several minutes with a well- placed observation.

"We can't keep doing our research here." 

They all looked around, taking in the piles of papers, the boxes of records, and the overflowing trashcan full of Chinese take out boxes.

"Not only is your place filthy, Gunn. But it's too small. And we need our books back."

She looked over at Wes.

"When did Angel say they'd be finished with the floors, again?"

Wesley gazed at her overtop his glasses. 

"He didn't. He just said he was refinishing all the hardwoods throughout the hotel, and we shouldn't be in it for awhile because of the fumes."

Cordy's lips drew into a hard line.

"Do you think that's really why we can't go over there?"

Both men were unable to meet her eyes. All three had the same thought, but no one really wanted to voice it. Not since their disastrous confrontation with Angel had they even discussed it. 

Ultimately Cordelia was unable to keep her silence.

"I think we ought to go over there and get a good look at her. I mean, she's gone and stolen Angel from us. Let's see what the competition's like."

Wes raised an eyebrow at Gunn, who raised his shoulders in a questioning shrug.

"Should we?" said Wes.

"I don't know." Said Gunn.

Cordy rolled her eyes and sighed dramatically. 

"Well I for one, am going over there. He can't just make me sit here and call hospitals all night. I'm a woman of action!"

Wes choked back a giggle, and Gunn snorted, but she ignored them and grabbed up her purse.

As she headed out the door, Gunn looked back over at Wesley.

"You game for it, man?"

The Englishman smiled.

"Always."

"Harmony, I just don't see what the problem is. You're perfectly safe here- So long as you don't get in the way, or cause trouble, Angel will look after you. And your room here is certainly as nice as the one at the Radisson."

Harm pouted.

"You say Wolfram and Hart are the "bad guys", that they want to use me to hurt Angel. But they aren't really interested in him- Or they'd have gone to get him, instead of me!"

The girl's intellect was truly mind-blowing for its complete lack of scope. Lilah took a breath and counted to ten.

"Harmony, they wanted you because you're young and inexperienced. We have reason to believe they've actively tried to kill Angel- There's no reason to believe they won't go after the rest of us as well. Drusilla, Darla, Spike- all of them are fair game right now."

The blonde exploded.

"Like I even CARE what they do to that two-timing, good for nothing-"

Ouch. Bad blood there, Lilah could tell. 

"You know them personally?"

Harm rolled her eyes heavenward.

"Oh, yeah. I know them. Droodzilla- Spike's crazy ex. And Spike- You might say I know him REAL well. We lived together for about five months. He's a bastard and I hate him."

'Note to self- investigate "the Spike connection" further,' thought Lilah.

"Well then, you and Angel have something in common. He doesn't seem to like your Spike very well either."

"He's not my Spike anymore. I don't think he ever really was."

Her whine was soft and plaintive. Oddly Lilah felt sorry for her. She dropped her voice and made her words gentle.

"Look. Angel sent up these clothes, just for you. He's prepared this room with you in mind. He cares about your welfare, Harmony, and if you made the slightest attempt to ingratiate yourself with him, you'd have him eating out of your hand in no time. Just get dressed and come downstairs, all right? You'll see you're not a prisoner here."

She tried to reach out her hand to the girl, but she drew back, demon to the fore, hissing.

Lilah sighed.

"I can't make you come down, I know that. But if you grow bored up here, maybe you'd like to join us. We'd like to include you in our discussions and see if you can help us out."

She left the girl alone then to consider her options.

"Can you see yet?"

Cordy's harsh whisper crackled in the night air, making Gunn jump slightly. He whistled softly through his teeth at her.

"Cordelia, please…Quiet, remember?" Wesley reminded her gently. 

She rolled her eyes. 

Then Gunn sat up a little straighter, the binoculars jutting out from his handsome face, spoiling its symmetry. 

"Dude! I can see her! I can see her! She's sitting across from him, at that little table. She's blonde-"

"I knew it!" shrilled Cordelia.

"SSH!" Wesley hissed at her. Then quietly to Gunn he said.

"What else can you see?"

Gunn waited a beat, then excitedly continued.

"Waitaminute! They're's two of them in there! He's got himself a blonde, AND a brunette. The brunette's all snuggled up alongside of him, real cozy like. They seem to be talking to the blonde. She's gesturing around, waiving her hands like this."

His swishy arm gestures were effeminate and amusing. Cordelia jumped in again.

"But what do they look like? Are they pretty?"

He nodded.

"Uh huh. Brunette gets at least a 9.5- she's wearing this tight black suit, and Damn,those'rsome fine curves! Can't see the blonde though, she's got her back to the window."

Minutes passed in complete silence before he broke it with a disgusted outburst.

"Aw, Man…He's got a guy in there too! And he looks even cozier than the girls. He's drapin' himself over Angel like a sweater or something, hanging around his neck."

Cordelia's protracted "Eeww" seemed to sum things up nicely for the group. Then Gunn's posture changed, his shoulders tightened and he leaned forward slightly.

"I don't know, but I'm thinkin' that guy looks kinda familiar."

He took the binoculars down, and passed them over to Wesley in the driver's seat. He put them to his face, and leaned over in front of Gunn. Behind them Cordelia was waving her hands, trying to get them to hand them back to her.

"Who is it? Come on, let me see."

Wesley lowered the binoculars, a look of despair in his eyes. 

"Cordelia, I believe those people are from Wolfram and Hart. Angel's young man is Mr. McDonald."

Imprudently, the girl opened up the backdoor.

"What are you doing?" asked Gunn, as Wesley stammered out a similar question.

She climbed out, and shut the door. Then she addressed them from the street, determination stiffening her spine.

"I'm gonna go find out just what the HELL is going on in there."

She headed for the door, and her partners quickly fumbled their way out of the car, to follow her.


	34. The Gallery

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn 34 "The Gallery"

AUTHOR: Nmissi  
PART:34/?

DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,   
what makes you think I'd share him with you?  
DISTRIBUTION: Want it? Take it. Just let me know where it's going.

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com  
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

NOTE: If you don't like the way I write my story, hey, write your own! Don't email me with your ideas, just write them and let me enjoy them as your story. I've got notes, an outline- It's way too late for me to "incorporate" anyone's suggestions, okay?

Back out onto the street, he squinted into the daylight as he fumbled with his watch. He still wasn't used to wearing one all the time, and it itched terribly, but not as badly as the godforsaken tie he was wearing. Somehow he could feel the dratted thing through the fabric of his collar, chafing and choking him.

It was one thirty. He'd been out since eight this morning, after dropping the Nibblet off at school. So far, no luck- thirteen "thank you, we'll be in touch" es, and no hire yet. He folded the classifieds under his arm, grumbling.

"that stripper gig is lookin' better all the time," he mumbled.

He realized he was only a block or so from Joyce's Gallery. Although he'd never been there, he knew the address. He'd passed by before, after hours, of course. Sometimes he'd peeked in the windows, and imagined Joyce working there. The idea of breaking in had occurred to him, naturally- But he had too much respect for Joyce to do that, so he'd settled for the windows. She'd run a beautiful shop, full of treasured antiquities that glittered like jewels.

"Mayhap the Slayer'd like a bit of company," he thought. Yeah, maybe he'd see if she'd want to go get lunch or something. She hadn't been eating very well of late. Maybe it was the morning sickness, or maybe it was the stress, but either way- It wasn't good. Buffy was shrinking daily, right before his eyes. 

Yeah, that was it. He'd go get Buffy, take her to get a decent meal. Then he'd go back to pedaling his phony work history and his equally artificial credentials. 

He pushed the door open, and was immediately greeted by the scent of freesia in the air. It was welcoming. He stepped inside, and took in the atmosphere of the gallery. 

It was nominally an art gallery, but it did a thriving business in antiquities as well. California style was growing to encompass bits of Mayan and Incan, as well as references to the classical- Grecian urns and roman amphorae had become sought after conversation pieces. Spike noted the absence of the commonly found knock offs, and smiled. Joyce had always enjoyed flawless taste.

A short brunette behind the counter looked up as he came over.

"Can I help you?" she asked. 

He smiled at her, but a customer stepped between them and blocked his view.

"Yes. You can. I want to know how much this is worth."

The woman was stout, broad built, and middle aged. Her shrill voice was like nails on a chalkboard, as she waved hunks of broken pottery under the merchant's nose.

"I need to get an estimate on these, what they're worth. The sign says you do estimates."

The girl tried to answer her. 

"We do, normally, but our buyer is not available right now. I'mafraid I'm not knowledgeable enough to help you. Also, it helps to have an appointment for appraisals."

The thick woman was not happy with this response; she reiterated that the sign stated that they did appraisals. She wanted one, now. She might sell them her potshards if the price was right.

The girl explained again that the buyer was out. The woman complained about business that led the public on, with lies.

At this point, Spike interjected himself into the conversation. The older woman was getting rapidly worse, her speech becoming abusive. The girl behind the counter seemed unused to confrontation, cringing away from her.

He dripped charm as he enquired after the pieces, in cultured tones he rarely used.

"Madam, might I see your pieces?"

She presented three potshards, and Spike quickly marked them as authentic. Native American, probably Anasazi.

"Is this all you have?" he asked.

She shook her head, and furtively withdrew a larger, intact pot from her oversized bag.

She handed it to him.

He looked it over, marked it to be twelfth century, concurrent to the bits. He turned it over, and frowned intently at the small hole drilled in it.

His voice was brittle, as he queried her.

"Where did you get this?" 

There was none of his Eton accent now; he was north London and a little bit angry.

She stuttered as she spoke to him.

"Give that back! Never mind, I don't want an estimate. I'll get one someplace else."

He held the piece out of her reach, as he looked over at the now terrified shopgirl.

"Call the police, please. It seems our friend here must have done a bit of vacationing in Colorado recently. Right?"

He looked at the irate woman, and fear crept into her face. She stopped demanding her pot back.

"And what did you do on vacation, Madam?Bit o' sightseein'? Some pueblo visiting? I recall the Anasazi ruins to be lovely, even by moonlight."

He sneered at her, as she backed away.

"But unfortunately our little friend did herself a bit o' grave robbing, too."

The woman fled the shop, leaving her evidence behind. He turned to the shopgirl, already hanging up with the police."

"They'll be here any minute, but I don't think they'll catch her."

"Ever see her before?"

"No. Never, sorry."

"Did you get her name by chance?"

The girl shook her head.

"No. I didn't even ask."

He sighed.

"Oh, well. We've contacted the police, and they'll get these back to Colorado at least. I wonder how badly she disturbed the site."

"How did you know where she got them?" the girl asked him.

He flipped the pot, and showed her the hole.

"This is a 'Killed Pot'- it's been bored out. That means it was used as a funeral offering. It's a burial pot. Coloration and thickness of the shards is similar; they were interred together. Those three pieces also look to be from the same vessel."

He turned them in his hands, showing her what to look for. He explained about the markings and the coloration, and wished for something from a later period to help her better understand the differences.

"Anyway, it's a damn shame they won't get her. She'll probably do it again, if she can find a disreputable buyer. It's easy money, the stuff's just lyin' around the canyon. You don't even half to dig for it half the time."

He realized he'd been talking, but hadn't introduced himself, so he put out his hand.

"Hi, I'm Sp- William. William Walthrop."

She shook his hand, smiling.

"Jeanette Dupres. And thank you, you were quite a help!" 

She glanced at the newspaper under his arm.

"Oh! You're here about the job! Of course!"

He opened his mouth to correct her, but she rambled on ahead of him excitedly.

"I know Buffy will just love you! It's been very difficult around here the last few months. Our owner died recently, and her daughter's taken over the running of the business. But she and I, we don't really have that much experience in the field. You saw me with that lady- I know very little about southwest pottery. Buffy probably knows less. But You! You were wonderful!"

She ran on in this manner for several minutes, and he found himself considering it. He had over a hundred years experience withhistory. He'd traveled the world several dozen times. He was no expert, but he had a good deal of broad knowledge with regards to art and art history. And he confessed to a secret love of archaeology. 

Maybe it would work. 

If it didn't, there was always the gay club down the street. They'd doubtless love him as a dancing boy in a cage. 

Yeah, the Gallery might just be the ticket, he decided.

And wouldn't Buffy be surprised….


	35. Confession

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #35 "Confession"

AUTHOR: Nmissi 

PART: 35/? 

DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,

what makes you think I'd share him with you? 

DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's

going. 

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com 

SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

The front door slammed shut with a bang, and the trio looked up as one. Slowly, and lastly, the blonde sitting alone turned around in her seat.

Cordelia Chase stood in the doorway, hopping mad.

"What are they doing here?" she asked. She hadn't yet noticed Harmon; her blazing brown eyes were trained sharply on the lawyers.

"Cordy. Won't you please come in?"Angel's monotone belied the fire behind his eyes. He was none too pleased about this.

Behind Cordy, the door swung open once more, and her partners entered the room. Gunn looked a little confused, and Wesley, a bit embarrassed.

"Good evening, Angel," said Wes softly.

"Evening, Wesley. Gunn. Glad you three could stop by."

Except that he wasn't, and his face was stormy.

Harmony interrupted, jumping gleefully to her feet.

"Cordelia! Omigosh, HI! I didn't know you were in L.A.!"

Cordy's head swiveled that direction and she lost focus on her anger, becoming perplexed.

"Harmony? What are you doing here?"

But she headed over to her anyway, and the two 'friends' came in close to kiss the air alongside their cheeks.

"You look great! Love the hair!"

"You too. Black becomes you. But I thought you were-"

"A- HEM. If you two are done making goo goo eyes at each other, maybe we can all get back to business. You were,"

Angel gestured at Cordelia.

"About to make a fool of yourself, I believe? And Harmony, you were going to sit quietly and not get in the way, right?"

Harmony plopped back down in her seat with a pout. 

"I want new ancestors. You suck."

He smiled at her benevolently.

"Yes, I do. And damn well, I might add. Now sit down and shut up before I drain you."

She mumbled inarticulately and under her voice, so only the dead could hear her.

"Prick."

Cordelia looked back at Angel, hurt in her eyes.

"Why are they here? What, are you working with them now?"

Lilah tried to intervene.

"There are things you don't understand, here."

"Damn Right I don't understand!" Cordelia was livid. Behind her, Wes shifted uncomfortably on his feet. Gunn merely looked interested. 

Cordy continued.

"You tell us we can't be here. You make up some asinine reason why, and send us on a wild goose chase to keep us out of your hair. Meanwhile, you're hanging out here with them?"

She looked at Lindsay with disgust, watching as he took his place at Angel's side. They were too close together, their arms nearly touching, and the look in Lindsay's eyes disturbed her.

"And what is it with him? I saw him, hanging all over you. You that hard up without Darla?"

Her comment was directed at Angel, but both men shrank back from her hard allegation.

Lindsay moved forward, as if to say something, but Angel placed a gentle hand on his arm.

"Take the girls upstairs, Lin. I'll handle this."

Lindsay shook him off.

"You need to come clean with them."

His eyes softened.

"Keeping secrets from them is tearing you up inside. I know it, I hear it in your voice every time she calls. Let's get this out in the open finally."

His voice dropped.

"Maybe they can help us. And surely they'll be safer with all three of us to watch their backs."

Angel considered his words, and nodded.

"Okay. But I don't need to do this with an audience. Take the girls upstairs. Take the laptop too, see if you can find what we need. We don't know how much longer her password's going to get us in there."

Lindsay reached for his hand, and squeezed it. 

"Okay."

Over his shoulder, he addressed Lilah.

"Get the laptop."

To Harmony, he added.

"And go grab something from the fridge, okay? We might be in for a long night."

She headed into the kitchen, bitching all the way.

Cordelia sat down in a chair, looking up at Angel insolently.

"Start talking." She demanded.

Wes and Gunn moved in protectively, taking the chairs alongside her.

Angel sat down across from her, and sighed deeply.

"They're my children."

Cordy snickered, and Wesley choked. But Angel went on.

"Lindsay was an accident. I killed him. I know it was wrong, and I did it anyway. I flat out killed the bastard, beat the shit out of him and drained him. He'd come here and shot me, and I'd had enough. But that doesn't excuse it, I know. There's no excuse for it."

They watched him blankly, waiting for more, so he continued.

" As I was feeding on him, his mouth touched the bullet wound in my shoulder. He tasted my blood, swallowed some of it."

Angel noted the horrified comprehension in Wesley's eyes.

"That's all it took. You know that. I should have staked him, but I didn't. I waited. While you all were here, working with me on the shooting at Caritas- he was chained upstairs, dead, waiting to rise. I don't know why I didn't stake him. Maybe I wanted to punish him. Maybe I was curious. I don't know exactly."

"Perhaps you were lonely," Wes said sadly. His eyes held understanding, and a hint of compassion. It bolstered Angel's nerve, and he went forward with his story.

"Something was wrong with Lindsay, though. He woke weeping. He wouldn't speak, he wouldn't eat. It was days before I could make him feed. He seemed to be broken, damaged. The nearest thing I'd ever seen to it was Drusilla, right before I turned her. Or myself, after I got my soul back the first time. When I realized what had happened , it blew me away."

He studied their faces closely for reactions to his disclosure.

"Lindsay sold his soul as a condition of his contract at Wolfram and Hart. When I turned him, he got it back. With everything that entails. All the grief and remorse, the self-loathing. All of it."

Wesley leaned forward.

"He has a- a soul?" he enquired.

Angel nodded.

Cordy jumped in.

"How do you know he's not just saying that?"

She was belligerent and disbelieving. But Angel just shook his head at her.

"I KNOW he's got a soul, Cordy. I can feel it. He's my child, I just know."

He shrugged. How to make her understand the vagaries of blood ties? 

"It's like I can feel my bond with him- with all my kind. But he feels different, he feels- I don't know. More like me."

"This is fascinating, Angel. Why didn't you tell us before? We need to study this, to research-"

Wesley's excited words were cut off by Cordelia's angry interjection.

"So you've got a 'kid' now. Great, I'm really happy for you. Sorry I missed the shower and everything."

Angel ignored her. She'd come around. It was more important to have Wesley's understanding, and Gunn's. Cordy was full of hurt feminine pride right now, but he could sway her. Gunn was too calm for him, however. The look of distrust in his face was painful.

"So you vamped Lindsay. That don't explain the other lawyer, why she's working with you two."

Gunn's voice implied there was more to the story, and he knew it. Angel nodded, resuming the narrative.

"We needed to know if it was a fluke, a one-time deal. Or if it was something that could happen again. But more than that, we needed inside of Wolfram and Hart."

He raised his hands to cut off the impending protests.  
"It's not like that. I think they were behind Caritas. I think it was an attempt to kill me, you know that. Well, I think they ordered it, and I wanted to know why. They've got information we don't have, they know something about me. Something that scares them enough to quit trying to "Corrupt" me, and just flat out try to kill me. I'm starting to put the pieces together, but I don't have them all just yet."

He raked a hand through fistfuls of his dark hair. Cordelia noticed for the first time how unkempt it was tonight, a riot of unregulated curls.

"Whatever it is, if affects not only me, but also my relations. You guys got that yourselves, when you interviewed the Snitch. I think they knew about Lin, before it happened. I think they might have suspected it was possible, or that it was going to happen."

He leaned back in his seat, and tried to decide how best to tell them about Lilah. Gunn's dark eyes were still on him, waiting expectantly. They felt like weapons, aimed his way.

"We needed someone who could get into Wolfram and Hart, an inside connection. Lindsay suggested Lilah. She's important enough to have access to all the information he was no longer privy to. I debated a long time whether we could do it, whether we should do it. But he pointed out to me that she was really no more human than we are. None of them are, none of the salaried contract players. It's part of the conditions of employment; your soul is nonnegotiable. He went to her at home. He got inside her apartment. He turned her. And she got her soul back."

He smiled over at them, this warm, wondrous sort of pride in his face. 

"It worked a second time. Instead of one vampire with a human soul, there are now three."

He looked at them silently, trying to decipher their feelings from the expressions on their faces.

Wesley was lost in thought, biting his lower lip as he considered. 

Cordy was hurt, but the anger had sort of wilted during his confession.

Gunn was unreadable, his face stoic, his eyes inscrutable. It was he who broke the silence.

"What about the other chick?"

Angel nodded.

"Harmony. She was turned by one of the Mayor's vamps at Graduation in Sunnydale. I'm sure you've heard about it. It was a bloodbath. Anyway, Wolfram and Hart were keeping her in a nice hotel room over at the Radisson. She was present at a meeting yesterday, with the Senior Partners."

He gave them a moment to digest this, then added,

"She doesn't have any names to give us but one. And she didn't pay attention to the meeting, doesn't really know what went on there."

"Then what good is she, and why isn't she dust yet?" quarreled Cordy.

"Give me a minute, Delia. I'm getting there, okay? They had her put up nice. Lilah got hold of the notes from the meeting, and found out some very interesting details."

He stood up, and got the hard copies of the minutes off the table. He carried them back over, and placed them into Wesley's hands.

"You can look them over, but basically it says there was a motion put on the table to eliminate one of the seats on the board of directors. It's been unoccupied for five years, belonging to a dead line of demons. As I understand it, the Senior Partners are comprised of the heads of various prestigious demonic lineages. They control vast wealth and resources in the mortal plane. They seem preoccupied with the acquisition of human souls."

He waited a minute, watching Wesley turn pages.

"Angel, this says-"

" I know, Wes. It says the line of Aurelius is dead. There are no descendants. No claimants to the seat."

He smiled bitterly.

"At the meeting, a woman referred to as Lady Maab produced Harmony for the board's inspection. It seems her sire was one of my descendants. She's of my blood."

"How's that?" Gunn's question came in clipped tones that echoed his mood.

Angel faced him.

"Angelus reemerged in Sunnydale a few years ago, I'm sure you've been told. I made a fair number of Vampires before Buffy ran me through. Some of them might still live, I suppose it's possible. One or more of them link Harmony to me. I don't know her generation because she doesn't know her sire. She was orphaned.

"You say that like it's supposed to make me care, Angel. I don't. Okay, let's say I believe you about Lilah and Lindsay. And By the Way. …Ick. I sort of thought you were, I don't know , STRAIGHT. But then you make a habit of doing your enemies, I guess."

Angel tried to shut Cordelia off, but she was having none of it. She smacked at his hands as he tried to touch her.

" But Harmony WASN"T sired by 'you-with-a-soul'. So she's a regular vamp, right? Again, Why not the stakeage?"

He sat back down, dejected.

"That's just it, Delia. She doesn't have a soul. Not that I can prove. But she feels different to me, more like Lilah and Lindsay than say, I don't know- Darla. But I don't know why. That's why I'm still investigating Wolfram and Hart, guys. I think maybe they do."


	36. Favor

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #36 "Favor"

AUTHOR: Nmissi 

PART: 36/? 

DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,

what makes you think I'd share him with you? 

DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's

going. 

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com 

SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

Giles watched carefully while his slayer trained. It had been weeks since he'd seen her like this, and her appearance disturbed him greatly. Her thin arms, her nonexistent breasts, her collarbones sharp as glass under the fragile, sallow skin. She looked like hell, and he was frightened for her.

He held that creature responsible. Spike. The name was anathema. His mouth turned into a hard line as he thought of him.

If Buffy wasn't focusing so much attention on her 'lover' then perhaps she would devote more of it to her own care, and Dawn's.

"You're dropping your left, Buffy." He spoke tentatively to her. His suggestions lately had been met with dark looks and hurt feelings.

She slumped against the wall, and slid down it. He walked over to her, and squatted down alongside.

"I'm out of shape, Giles. And I'm too tired to train."

He considered his words a moment before responding.

"Yes, well, I imagine you're overexerting yourself. Between slaying, the gallery, and everything else.."

She seemed as if she wanted to say something. But she'd been like this a lot, recently, and yet had not been forthcoming.

He dropped his voice, making his words soft, trying to convey with them that she was safe, that she was loved.

"Please, Buffy. Won't you tell me what's wrong?"

She shook her head, and stood up. He followed her out of the training room.

In the front room of the store, she sat down a the the big table, and pulled a diet coke from her purse, along with a granola bar. She chewed it halfheartedly, then tossed most of it into the trash.

Giles sat down next to her.

"Buffy, your mother would not want to see you like this. We both know that. You are so pale, so thin…"

His words trailed off, but she took his meaning. Everyone had been on at her for months about the weight she'd lost. It was nothing new.

"I'm okay, Giles. Tired, but that's no big. Tired happens."

She thought about the baby, and how very sleepy she was these days. Her doctor said it was normal to be tired like this.

Giles had changed subjects on her, while she was not listening. He was going on about Glory, now.

"- so it seems she's concentrating her efforts in L.A. still. She presumes the key to be there, since she felt it through Ben, I suppose. Cordelia faxed me some figures I find very troubling."

"I don't want to hear about Glory," Buffy remarked, acidly.

"Buffy, surely we have a responsibility to those poor people. Every day we wait, she harms someone else."

Buffy turned a vacant stare on her watcher.

"And I'm supposed to do what, exactly? Go up there and tell her to stop? THINK, Giles. I can't stop her. All I can do is keep Dawn away from her until her time runs out. Ben said she's on a schedule. I just have to wait her out."

"And while you wait? Every day, she drives another human being mad. Imagine the suffering, Buffy. She's ripping homes, families, apart. She's destroying lives, as surely as if she'd killed those people."

"I can't worry about that right now, Giles. It is Not My Problem. I have responsibilities here, responsibilities that don't include getting myself killed."

His voice held awe, as he responded.

"You're afraid of her."

Buffy looked at him like he was a moron.

"Uh- Yeah? I am."

He shook his head.

"I understand that, Buffy, better than you know. But you have an obligation to protect those people."

He played on her weakness.

"You love your sister, I know that. But think about all the sisters she's hurting out there. You've lost your mother, do you really want that for someone else? When you might be able to prevent it?"

She exploded at him.

"You know what obligations I have? I'm obligated to take care of Dawn. I'm obligated to take care of me. I'm obligated to take care of my baby. That is all the obligations I intend to have, anymore. I've saved the world enough times- Let somebody else go do it for a change."

His mouth hung slightly open, and she realized she'd let it slip.

He sputtered.

"Y-Y-Your BABY?"

She sank back down beside him.

"I'm about seven weeks pregnant, Giles. I'm having a baby."

He just blinked at her.

She sighed.

"That's why I'm not going back to L.A. Cordy called me, Angel called me…You know what? I just can't seem to summon up enough energy to care. I feel bad for those people, I really do. But I can't risk it."

She laughed hollowly.

"It's hard enough going out on patrol every night. You don't know the fear, Giles. I've never been afraid like this before. But suddenly every stumbling newborn vampire looks is as intimidating as Angelus. All I want to do is go home and hide, tell Spike to bar the door and get the shotgun."

She saw the disapproval in his eyes, the look he got whenever she mentioned Spike's name.

"Giles, he's been going out on my rounds with me. Sometimes he even goes for me. I'm so tired and so scared, he thinks I'll make a mistake, get us both killed."

"And how does Spike feel about impending parenthood?" 

He spit the name out like a dirty word.

She smiled at him, a look of affection in her eyes as she thought about Spike.

"He's coming around."

"What, you think all of a sudden that the Watcher's Council is the Ultimate Authority on Vampire Mythlore?"

Angel was angry. Wesley had been poring over texts for hours, with no end yet in sight. And he'd found nothing to go on. But the final straw had been when he'd delicately enquired if maybe there WASN"T anything to go on. 

"So you think if the COW doesn't know about Lilah and Lindsay, then they just go away? They aren't an issue anymore? These people are my family, Wesley. I need that information."

He sighed. 

"Maybe they'll come up with something on their own." 

It certainly didn't look as if HIS connections were getting them anywhere. 

Lilah poked her head around the door.

"Hate to interrupt your tirade, Angel. But you've got a phone call on line 2?"

She shot a look at Cordy who gave her an innocent shrug.

"My nails are wet," she explained.

Lilah rolled her eyes, but she let it drop. Angel went to the phone, and clicked over to his private line.

"Hello?" he said.

"S'me, Peaches. How's unlife treatin' you?"

Angel felt the corners of his mouth crack into a rare, honest grin.

"William! Glad you called. It's not bad on my end. Right now, anyway… How are things on yours?"

His voice was jovial, but there was real concern in his heart. He'd been very worried about Spike. He had not heard from him directly since he'd left the hotel that morning. Angel had wondered if he'd ever hear from his boy again.

"It's okay."

Angel crinkled up his forehead. Something wasn't right with that tone of voice.

"Spike, what is it? What's going on?"

Spike leaned his head up against the wallpaper, drinking in the sound of his Sire's voice. It's rich tones still felt like home to him, even now. He measured his words carefully. He needed a favor from Angelus, and he wasn't quite sure how to go about getting it.

He opted for Restrained Honesty. It seemed the least likely method to get him into further trouble.

"Actually, Angel, things're a little bit complicated right now. But I'll handle it… I could use a bit of a favor from you, however- if you're up to it."

Angel hesitated. Favors for Spike usually involved a goodly amount of money, in either direct -purchase form, or in the fashion of a bribe. 

"How much do you need, and who am I supposed to pay off?" 

He sounded tired, he knew that. But it was part of the ritual. When enacting the role of the Pater Familias, he tended to go all hangdog. It was expected of him.

"S'nothing like that, Angel. Well, not so much."

Spike's pride was withering, but he stuck it out. Pride was an expensive commodity, one his family couldn't really afford right now. The gallery was doing okay, but he needed to plan ahead. He needed to get things in order.Angel could be excellent in that capacity. 

Spike swallowed back his independence and made his request.

"I need documents, Angel, as valid as you can make them. I know you have connections that can do it for me."

He lowered his voice respectfully.

" I really need your help with this."

On his end Angel nodded as he answered.

"Yes, I can put you in touch with the right people for that. But I don't understand why you need me, Spike. Fake Ids can be had much cheaper in Sunnydale than L. A."

He paused for a beat, then added,

"Or did Buffy stake all your underworld buddies."

Ha ha. Funny man. Let him laugh, fine. Just so long as he gets me a legal identity, thought Spike.

"I need better stuff, Angel. Like I said, I want papers as authentic as possible, with my real name, and my real birthday, if not the right birthyear. It needs to hold water in any court of law.And I want the facts as close to the truth as I can reasonably get them. Can you get me that, Angel? Is it possible?"

Angel tried to fathom what his grandchilde was up to. He racked his brain, but came up empty. 

"What's going on, Spike?'

His answer was a frustrated sigh on the other end of the phone.

"I don't want to go into it over the phone, Angel. Look, can you hook me up with the stuff or not?"

"Are you in some kind of trouble with the law?"

Spike groaned loudly.

"No. It's nothing like that, really. Well, Giles did try to deport me recently, but nothing's come of it yet. Hopefully nothing will. But this is something else entirely."

"Then what the hell do you want them for? I'll get them for you, but what do you want with them?"

"It's personal, Angel. Look, I'll talk to you about it when I see you next, all right?"


	37. Prophecy

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #37 "Prophecy"

AUTHOR: Nmissi 

PART: 37/? 

DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,

what makes you think I'd share him with you? 

DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's

going. 

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com 

SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

"They keep referencing something called the millennium prophecy. I've never heard of it before, but it's on countless documents and filenames. It encompasses everything from ten shipments of sacrificial goats, to the expense account for Harmony's stay at the Radisson. I keep running into it all over the records, the paper trail is huge. But, as I've said- I've no idea what it refers to."

She looked over at the scholar.

"Wesley, what do you think? Does this ring any bells for you?"

He shook his head disappointedly.

"Sadly, no. I've never encountered anything by that title in my research. It could be something I've never seen- Or it could be another name for any number of prophecies."

Cordy cut in.

"Don't you guys think it's a little bit weird? I mean, shouldn't a 'Millenium Prophecy' be, I don't know- About the new millennium? And aren't they like a year and a half late now?"

Wesley interrupted.

"Actually, Cordelia, the new millennium began January the first, of THIS year. And a 'millenium' prophecy might pertain to any number of things. It need not even be this particular millennium, truthfully."

Cordy's shoulders slumped.

"It's okay, C. We'll figure it out." Said Gunn, patting her shoulder.

Angel had been sitting silently throughout the meeting, looking out the window at nothing.Now he raised his head.

"There's nothing else to be done." 

His voice was firm. Lindsay sighed in response, and wearily got to his feet.

"I'll do it."

"What? What are you proposing?" asked Lilah.

Lindsay answered her.

"Someone's going to have to get inside the building, physically, and get into the library archives. Whatever that prophecy is, it's probably in a book or a scroll or something, in the archives. We need access to it, and that means one of us has to go in there and somehow smuggle the information back out."

Lilah was suddenly upon him, her arms out.

"Lindsay, the minute you set foot in there, the vamp detectors will go off. They'll have staked guards on you in minutes. The very least you can expect is capture."

She didn't mention the unspoken truth of the matter, that anyone they sent in might likely not come back out alive. If Lindsay got the information, he'd have to send it out to them, via fax, phone, or email. There was no way he'd be coming back out undusted.

Lindsay nodded, excitement creeping into his face.

"I don't know, Lilah. I've been wanting to test my new limits. I'd sorta welcome the chance to go one on one with some of the staff."

"Why not one of us? We won't set off the detectors, at least," commented Gunn.

Angel shook his head

"They've got all of you on videotape, now. The guards all know your faces, you'd never even get inside. It will have to be someone with security clearance. Lilah still has that, for now, and Lindsay might can still get inside the building, at least, on his familiarity with their system. You guys would be toast."

Then he brightened, slightly.

"But I might know someone they've never seen, who might can get in."

"Who?" asked Cordy.

"Yes, Angel. Who do you have in mind?" said Wesley.

Angel smiled softly.

"I've got to call and ask him, first."


	38. Correct Forms of Address

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #38 "Correct forms of Address"

AUTHOR: Nmissi 

PART: 38/? 

DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,

what makes you think I'd share him with you? 

DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's

going. 

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com 

SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

"There's a package for you on the kitchen table."

Spike laid his jacket over the back of the sofa, unlacing his tie as he followed Dawn's voice into the kitchen.

"What is it?" he asked.

She shrugged at him, as she fished a coke from the fridge.

" I don't know. Do I look like your secretary? Besides, I don't open your mail. Just Buffy's." 

She plopped herself down in a kitchen chair, and opened a bag of fritos and the canned soft drink.

Spike picked up the fed ex box. Angel'd been right prompt, he had. Only three days since he'd asked him about the papers, and here they were.

He tore the box open and slid out a large manila envelope.

Dawn watched him with undisguised curiosity.

"Whatcha get?" she asked.

He looked up at her, smiling wickedly.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" 

He sat down, opening the envelope carefully. He slid the papers free, and looked them over.

Birth certificate for William Anthony Walthrop VI. Born to William Anthony Walthrop V and Elisa Walthrop on April 18, 1975. 

He noted with pleasure that the birth itself was untraceable; the London hospital listed had burned to the ground in '77. 

A baptismal certificate for the same year. O levels, driver's permit, green card….

Angel had been extremely thorough. He wondered what this box of fiction had cost.

A folded sheet fell from the sheaf of papers, and he picked it up. It was good stationery, and he recognized the handwriting immediately.

As he read, his eyes grew moist. He got up from the table and walked out, leaving Dawn perplexed behind him.

She picked up the dropped letter, and read.

"Spike. Here are your papers. I've tried to be as accurate as possible with them, as you asked. Should anyone contact your high school, they will find detailed records of your time there. Should your ancestry be questioned, it's a matter of public record in the Peerages. Should someone investigate you, they will find no shortage of people willing to say that they know you, attended school with you, and remember you fondly. 

If you decide to go home, you will find that your title has been restored and your ancestral home purchased. The line died out with your turning. It was not difficult to change that, from a records standpoint. Enough money can do just about anything. 

In short, you have everything we took from you that could be returned.

I know it's more than you asked for. But it made me feel better- If things don't work out here in the U.S., you have somewhere to go. Your family home is in appalling condition. It was sold several times, and no work has been done there in the last fifty years. I'm sorry to say the surrounding grounds were surrendered to the Crown to pay taxes. But the house still stands, and if you chose to do so, you could make a life for yourself there.

I've opened an account at Lloyds' in your name, and transferred a respectable sum into it. You are neither without friends, or resources. 

I love you,

Angel "

Title? House? Her head was full of questions. She got up from the table, and went out into the living room.

She found Spike standing at the window, looking out. Tears streaked his cheeks, and his two-toned hair was in disarray, where he'd clawed at it.   
She put a hand on his shoulder.

"This is good, right? I mean, Angel tried to help you out. I don't think he meant for it to hurt you."

Spike sighed, and turned to her. Then he smiled wanly.

"No, love. He had the very best intentions. It's just too much, is all. My house. My name. You can't possibly understand what that means to me."

He took her hand.

"Come with me outside. I think I need a cigarette."

She followed him, and together they sat down on the porch. She watched him light his fag with trembling fingers.

"I knew he'd come through for me, I just had no idea he'd do all of this."

There was wonder in his tone. 

Dawn thought quietly for a moment.

"So, does this mean you're Lord Whatsis, or something, now?"

He chuckled.

"No, love. In England, thanks to the maneuverings of Angel, I'm Sir Whatsis. Or Sir William, actually. A baronet is not even really a peer."

She looked even more confused.

"Never mind, love. Besides, I'm in America. You lot don't use titles."

She smiled again, brilliantly.

"I like it. 'Sir Spike.' It's cool."

He grinned back at her.

"Yeah, it is, innit?"

She looked him over, taking in his disheveled appearance. His "work clothes", as he called them- grey slacks, blue shirt, black tie. All a little wrinkled. His hair, rather shaggy around his face, in two shades. Dark blonde at the roots, white at the ends.

She reached over and smoothed the untidy curls around his face.

"You need a haircut, Sir Spike."

He considered a moment, running his free hand over the top of his head.

"You're right. I do. Want to ride over to the Barber shop with me?"

She nodded, getting to her feet.

"I'll run get my purse. Can I go in the drugstore while you're in there? There's a magazine I want to pick up."

"Yeah, sure. Just the one across the street, though. I don't want you out of my sight too long."

"You'll never even know I'm gone, word of honor," she promised.


	39. Attack

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #39 "Attack"

AUTHOR: Nmissi 

PART: 39/? 

RATING: R (for the series)

DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,

what makes you think I'd share him with you? 

DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's

going. 

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com 

SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

"A little off the sides, too, please." 

The man with the clippers snipped and sheared, and Spike kept his eyes trained on the storefront across the street.

She'd been in there too long, already. A knot was growing in his gut, larger every second that passed without her walking out the door of the drugstore.

"There you go." 

The barber swiveled the chair, and Spike took a look at himself.

Dark blonde curls fell forward across his forehead. The rest of his hair seemed lighter, sheared close against his scalp.

He looked more like William than he had in quite some time. 

"Thanks, mate." 

He pressed a twenty into the old man's hand, and grabbed his brown leather jacket off the coat rack. Then he hurried outside, and crossed the street.

'She's probably just looking at magazines. She gets into those teen things- Tiger beat, what all. Probly lost track o' time, that's all."

He attempted to reassure himself with these thoughts as he walked the aisles of the store.

She wasn't in the magazine aisle, however. Nor did he find her in the hair care products. Or the makeup section.

He did each aisle twice, with no luck, encountering no one else in the store.

He headed back to the front, looking for a cashier to question, but there was no one at the front desk either.

Skin prickling, sweat broke out on his forehead. This was not right, the building was too quiet….

He wished for a weapon. Damn, but he was going to have to get a concealed carry permit. 

'Think, mate. If you were the Nibblet, and something bad went down in here, what would you do?'

She'd hide. She'd hide if she couldn't get out. She'd hide and wait for him.

But where would she hide?

A whistling noise to his left alerted him, and he stepped to the side just quickly enough to avoid the downstroke of a broadsword. 

He took in the bloody chainmail before him with drowning hopes. 

"Eh, mate? I think you wandered out of your century." He quipped.

The knight charged at him once more, and he moved away, his eyes darting about. He needed a weapon. His hand raked the counter as he moved, and he came up with a tester bottle of hairspray.

He sprayed it in the knight's face, and he staggered back. Spike ran down aisle six. 

"Nibblet! Nibblet where are you?" 

He tore into the back of the building, and his gut roiled at the carnage. 

Apparently they'd slaughtered the customers. Four bodies, in bits, littered the "Employees only" room. One of them still wore the smock of an employee, and a nametag that said "I'm SARAH, welcome to Revco!" Two other knights, equally bloody to the third, were wiping their swords on rags as he entered. Two men in business suits raised guns at him.

"Sorry, mates, not my party." He said, backing out.

She wasn't among the bodies, he knew that. So she had to be hiding, somewhere…

The men's room was to his right, the ladies room next to it.He kicked the door open, listening intently, and lamenting the loss of a vampire's sense of smell.

Nothing. He moved farther in, wary. Behind him he could hear the knights, clanging chainmail in the hall.

He looked under the stall, and saw nothing there. 

"Nibblet?" he whispered frantically.

"In here!" her whisper-hiss moved him to action. He looked around, spying the metal grill of the air return vent. He ripped it out of the wall, and shoved it through the large metal door handle, as a bar. 

"That should slow them down."

Then he kicked open the stall door.

She was crouched on the toilet, her eyes wide in fear. 

"Are they gone?" she whispered.

"No, baby. They're not." 

He moved into the stall, and helped her down. Together they stepped out, in time to see the metal grille bend. 

They were coming through the door.

He looked around again. There had to be a way out.

The window was small, and old. It looked painted shut, and it was too high in the wall. But it was all they had to go with.

He pulled the trashcan over underneath it, and stood on top. Then he rammed his fist through the window as hard as he could, bloodying his arm. 

With careful hands he broke out the remaining glass, then hopped down.

"Go on then. Out with you."

He helped her stand on the trashcan. She slipped, and her foot went inside. 

"Damn it!" she swore.

"Don't say things like that." His reaction was automatic, his words thoughtless. She glared at him and he groaned.

"Bloody hell. Alright, say what you like."

She freed her foot, but she couldn't get through the window. And the vent grille was nearly bent in half now.

"I'm not gonna fit!" she wailed.

His voice was desperate.

"Okay. New plan." 

He helped her down, and together they ducked back into the stall once more. He stood on the seat, and pulled her up alongside him. 

His eyes met hers.

"Don't move. Don't breathe." He mouthed.

She nodded.

They heard the knights come in

Then mere seconds later, they heard.

"They're outside. They went out the window."

The metallic clangs let them know when their pursuers left. Slowly they got back down.

"I think they went out. They're probably in the alley, looking for us." He said.

She nodded.

Together they snuck back through the store, and carefully exited the building. Then together they ran for the car.

They pulled down the street as the knights finally began emerging from the alleyway.


	40. Prelude

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #40 Prelude

AUTHOR: Nmissi  
PART: 40/?

RATING: R (For Series)  
DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,   
what makes you think I'd share him with you?  
DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's   
going.  
Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com  
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

She was still wrapping his hand when Buffy came through the doorway, wrinkling her brow as she took in the scene.

"Dawn? What happened?" 

The teenager barely turned her head in acknowledgement.

"Window."

She waited patiently, but Dawn failed to elaborate. Finally she looked down at Spike for an answer.

"Well?" she asked.

He shrugged.

"Like the kid said. I broke a window."

Buffy gritted her teeth and tried to extract the whole story from the tight lipped pair.

"What window? And how?"

Spike whispered to Dawn, and she sighed and stepped away from him.

"Whatever."

Then she flounced up to her room.

Wearily, Buffy sank down onto the sofa. Lately all her interactions with Dawn seemed to go this way. 

'Was I like this at fifteen?' she wondered.

Spike was still sitting across from her, cradling his bandaged arm. 

"She's had a rough day, Slayer. Don't expect too much from her. It's not you- It's the whole world she's mad at." 

He took in her haggard appearance, and moved over to take her in his arms in a quick hug.

"How was school tonight?" he asked.

Buffy made a face.

"Don't ask. Suffice it to say, I don't think I have a brilliant future ahead of me in any of the hard sciences."

He grinned at her.

"Nah. But I think your schedule's sort of full up, anyway, innit?"

She smiled, then her face fell.

"Damn. I forgot to pick up milk on the way home."

He tried to reassure her.

"No big deal, love. I'll get some in the morning."

She sighed.

"I had planned to make mashed potatoes tonight, to go with the frozen meatloaf. No milk means no potatoes. No potatoes means Dawn won't eat meatloaf."

Dawn herself reappeared on the stairwell, wearing streetclothes and a backpack.

"Debbie called. I'm going over her house tonight. Her mom says its cool."

Spike jumped in.

"Oh, no you're not, Missy. You go call her back and tell her you can't."

His voice softened.

"It's not a good idea, you know that, pet."

Dawn gave him an ugly look.

"I'm as safe there as anywhere. Prob'ly safer than here. Everybody knows I live here. Besides, Debbie's mom's a good cook."

Beside him, Buffy winced.

Then she spoke up.

"Fine. You can stay the night at Debbie's. Is her number-"

"It's on the fridge." Said the girl.

Spike bit his lip, struggling to keep silent. He could prevent Dawn leaving, but then he'd have to tell Buffy about the drugstore. And tonight was not the night for that. Tomorrow, maybe, but he had other plans for this evening, ends to tie up, things to take care of.

But it really galled him when she contradicted him to Dawn. How were they supposed to present the "united front" she wanted, when she constantly flouted his authority with the girl?

Dawn headed for the door, and Spike grabbed his jacket.

"You're not walking over, at any rate. I'll drive you," he said.

She just shrugged her shoulders at him and gave him a defiant stare.


	41. Question

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #41 "Question"

AUTHOR: Nmissi  
PART: 41/?

RATING: R (For Series) NC 17 THIS PART!  
DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,   
what makes you think I'd share him with you?  
DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's   
going.  
Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com  
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

He unlocked the door, and stepped inside the house to the smell of pepperoni pizza. Buffy sat on the couch, munching her way through a folded slice.

He dropped his keys onto the end table, and tossed his jacket over the back of a chair.

"Dinner's ready." 

She smiled up at him sheepishly.

He nodded, and retrieved a coke from the fridge, and a plate from the cabinet. Then he came back in and joined her on the couch.

"What are you watching?" he enquired.

She wrinkled up her nose at the TV screen. 

"I don't know. I just turned it on a minute ago." 

He took up the remote, and flicked through the channels unsuccessfully before flipping it off.

"Friday night television is a wasteland." He declared, as he chucked the remote onto the coffee table top.

Buffy finished up her pizza, and stood up.

"Do you think you'll want any more?"She asked him.

He nodded, swallowing, then motioned to the opened box.

"Leave me two more." 

She picked up the slices and moved them onto the ones already lining his plate. Then she closed the box, and put her plate and glass on top of it. Very carefully, she lifted the arrangement and made for the kitchen.

"Oh, very nice. If the slayin' gig doesn't work out, you can always waitress."

His only reply was her free hand, delicately sliding up into the air as she walked, flipping him the bird over her shoulder.

He finished up dinner while he contemplated. How should he do this?

He'd like to have been rosy and romantic- But he had a feeling Buffy might not react well to it. And the whole soft music and flowers gig reeked of weakness. He was feeling weak and whipped already these days; he saw no reason to wallow in it.

He got up, carrying his dish into the kitchen, where she was washing things up.

He slid the plate into the water, and slammed her with his intentions.

"I think we should get married."

She rinsed her glass, then his plate. He waited. Finally she turned around to face him.

"Why?" she asked.

His look said, "Are you colossally stupid?"

But his mouth said, "We just should, is all. It's not right, this. You're… expecting. There's a child in the house already. It's not…"

He ran a hand through his curls, as he struggled to find the right words.

"It's not seemly."

She sneered at him.

"Nothing about us is "Seemly", Spike. Never has been. I'm sleeping with my ex-mortal enemy. I don't love you. You don't love me."

"I do love you! You know that!" 

But she shook her head at him. 

"No, you don't."

There was anger in her eyes, he saw, as she continued.

"If you did, you wouldn't have done it like this."

The flowers. He should have done with the hearts and flowers bit, it was obvious now. 

"Ah, hell, Buffy. I'm sorry it's not the proposal of your dreams-"

"It's no PROPOSAL at all!" she shouted, " You just tell me we ought to get married. There's no ring, there's no,"

She looked pointedly at him.

"knees. There's nothing but your ego and your nineteenth century morality at work here."

She glared at him, then added,

"Actually, I think you did better last time."

Spike rolled his eyes at her. She would throw that up in his face.

"Oh, so NOW you'll talk about that. When I've wanted to talk about it you won't- But NOW you throw it up at me."

She glared at him.

"Yes, well maybe I could run get Willow, she could wave a magic wand and you'd be romantic again."

He snorted.

"Yeah? Well I don't recall that it did me much good then, did it? Soon as the spell broke you acted like I had Leprosy or something. None of it meant anything to you, you didn't feel anything for me."

"You're implying it meant something to you?" she asked disbelievingly.

He rolled his eyes. 

"Yeah. I'm IMPLYING that. I'm here, aren't I? I've been in love with you for years. Dru knew it before I did. EVERYBODY knew it before I did. Don't you ever think about the spell, Buffy? I mean, we were so _certain_ we weren't under one. Maybe we weren't."

She raised her eyebrows in a look that said, "You're reaching."

But he went forward with the argument.

"I know we were spelled to get married, Slayer. I'm not stupid. But the rest of it- Maybe it was real. Maybe the marriage spell made us deal with things we didn't want to deal with."

She shook he head at him frantically.

"No. I don't see it that way, Spike, I don't."

He raised his hands in a pleading gesture.

"Hear me out. I don't dispute that the whole proposal was Red's doing. But she didn't spell us to love each other. And we did, Buffy. For that one day, we loved each other madly. I've never felt like that about anyone else in my whole life."

She stepped farther back from him.

He went on.

"Try to remember how happy you were, Buffy. I've never seen you that happy, not before or since. And I made you that happy. I did it then. I can do it again. I can do it for the rest of my miserable life if you'll let me. You just have to open yourself up to it. "

She whispered then, softly.

"I'm afraid to, Spike. I'm afraid to be that happy again. What if the spell breaks, and it stops again?"

He stepped forward and seized her.

"It's no spell, love. It's real. I'm real. You're real. And this- Us- It's terribly real."

She jerked free of his arms, and he groaned. How the hell was he supposed to get through to her?

"Look. I'm sorry I'm not doing better at this. I've been thinking about it a lot lately. And I probably should have been poofier about it, you birds like that rot."

She started to cry, now, and he felt even worse.

Women aren't supposed to cry when you ask them to marry you.

He reached for her, but she drew back away from him. How was he supposed to convince her when she wouldn't let him touch her?

He lowered his voice, and tried to put all his love for her into it as he spoke.

"Buffy, I love you. You're the reason I wake up in the morning. But it's not enough to live here with you, it's not enough to love you and touch you and see you every day. You can call it ego, you can call it antiquated morality- but I want you to belong to me. You, the baby, Dawn…"

His eyes met hers, full of the love he felt in his heart.

"And I need to belong to you as well."

She brought her hand to the side of his face, sniffling. But she stroked his cheek gently, and moved close to him.

"You do belong to me, Spike. You always have, in one way or another. MY enemy. MY partner. MY friend. MY lover. MINE. Always mine."

An unrelated memory drifted into his head at her words.

_"I'd rather be fighting you anyway."_

He pulled her tightly against him, kissing the top of her head. Her arms snaked around him, and stroked his back with dishwater-wet hands.

He lifted her face to his, meeting her lips in the gentlest of kisses. She was heat and compliance in his arms, melding against him. His hands caressed her sides, and one wandered to the shoulder of her blouse, moving it away so he could kiss the warm skin lightly.

Her sharp intake of breath was a welcome thing. It had been almost a week since she'd let him make love to her. Almost a week since she'd wanted him, and although his pride smarted, he jumped at the opportunity. She beckoned, and he went gratefully.

His hands pulled at her blouse. Dimly he realized they were still in the kitchen, and he decided he did not care. It was daylight yet outside, and he did not care. There was an open window shade and opened curtains on the side door. Anyone could come to the door and see- Still he did not care.

Slowly, reverently, he undressed her, and she returned the favor. She clung to him liquidly, as his hands mapped her flesh for his memory.

_With my body, I thee worship._

__He lifted her legs, they wound around his hips, and he guided them over to the table top. He deposited her on its flowered tablecloth, and stepped back to marvel at the lust in her eyes.

That's for you, mate. All of it.For you.

"Spike," she breathed, frantically. She reached to touch him, and he closed his eyes, gasping. She stroked him with both hands, and he struggled not to spill in them.

Finally he seized her hips, and pulled her to the edge of the tabletop. She lay back on its length, and he stood alongside it, and tossed her legs over his shoulders. He pushed inside of her warm wetness.

She sprawled beneath him against the flowered tablecloth, hair fanned out behind her head like a halo. He pressed a kiss against the inside of her knee as he pumped himself into her. She moaned, needing more than this. He slid a hand down atop her mound, and pinched her clit rhythmically until she screamed his name and bucked against the table.

He spilled himself inside her and collapsed atop her. She giggled beneath him, and he drew back, slightly miffed.

"What? Whatever are you laughing at, woman?"

Through her laughter she answered him.

"I was just thinking that my mother would have a fit if she knew what we just did on her best tablecloth, Spike. Then I realized she probably does know, and she just might decide to haunt me over it."

She was smiling a radiant smile that made his heart dance. He smiled back at her, and lifted his weight off as he stood up. She slowly stood up after him.

It hit him like the proverbial ton of bricks. 

She was laughing. And she was talking about her mother while she did.

It had been so long since he'd seen that particular smile. He'd forgotten what it did to him, forgotten the way it melted his insides and made him ache.

"So, where did you put that tacky little cake couple anyway?" he asked.


	42. Preparations

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #42 Preparations

AUTHOR: Nmissi  
PART: 42

RATING: R (For Series)  
DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,   
what makes you think I'd share him with you?  
DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's   
going.  
Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com  
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

"Yes, Mr. Walthrop. I think we can accommodate you."

The portly lawyer gratefully pressed his hand, a trifle too enthusiastically. But then, Spike had just given him a retainer the size of which he was unlikely to see ever again.

"You must follow my instructions to the letter, Richards. The insurance policy is paramount. But the Entail is quite clear-cut. You must find a way to break it should the need arise."

The crafty old man practically gleamed under instruction.

"Of course, Sir. And may I add, We here at Robins, Meyer, and Stein are honored by your patronage."

He chuckeled, his rosy cheeks jiggling, as he added,

"It's not every day we get to represent a Peer of the Realm."

Spike lacked the heart to instruct the poor fellow on the finer points of the peerage; namely, that a baronet was decidedly NOT one. 

'Bloody Yanks. Ignorant lot, they.' He thought quietly as he left the office building.

Some hours later, he carefully folded clothes inside a battered old suitcase. Dawn sat perched on the bed, watching intently.

"What am I supposed to tell Buffy?" she asked. Her expression was wary, as she studied him.

"Just what I told you to. You tell her I'm on a buying trip in L.A., a last minute thing. It's the truth, you know." He dug his black duster out of the closet and folded it neatly on top of the rest of his clothes, before closing the case.

"It's not the whole truth. You won't tell me, but I know there's more to it than that. It's Glory, isn't it? You're going to L. A. to do something about Glory." She accused.

He gave her a level stare.

"No. I'm not going to 'do something about Glory.' I've grown rather attached to my skin, Nibblet. Glory's not my problem until she comes round here. This trip, it's …It's just business, nothing more."

She played her ace.

"So why did Angel call you yesterday? To talk about the ball game?" 

He groaned. Nosey little thing, she always figured out his business. In a century's time, he'd successfully kept some excellent secrets. Now he had none, because he lived in a house with a fifteen year old Sleuth. It was a bit disconcerting.

"Maybe Angel called to say hello, eh? Can't a man get calls from 'is mates without it bein' all 'Nefarious'?"

"When did Angel become one of your 'Mates'?" she prodded.

Spike set his jaw and crossed his arms over his chest. 

"Don't you have homework or something? Papers to write, sums to figure, that sort of thing?"

She gave a put-upon groan and rolled off the bed, then flounced out of the room.

Spike mentally catalogued his baggage. Spare clothes. Money. A nice, untraceable police revolver with the numbers filed off. Four boxes of ammunition.

He spied the small slip of paper on the nightstand and picked it up.

The sonogram. 

At eight weeks it didn't show much of anything, really. Two round things, the head and torso, and something the nurse called "limb buds" that looked like tiny arms. But it had satisfied the doctor, and consequently Buffy. By all appearances Baby Summers looked to be a healthy normal human fetus. 

Apparently his nightmarish, horror- story visions of bloodsucking infants were a manifestation of his subconcious, and not some weird prophecy. And he'd not had a bad "baby dream" since before this last checkup.

He'd had no idea how worried he really was until that moment in the obstetrician's office. Watching the black and white monitor, he'd waited for the inevitable blow- Something would be wrong. It couldn't possibly be human, normal… Or maybe it wasn't healthy. 

The nurse had smiled at them, and begun pointing out body parts. 

'Look, here's the head. And these are going to be arms and legs, very soon…"

His stomach had crawled back up out of his feet, and he'd felt at least ten pounds lighter across the shoulders. A ridiculous grin had crept onto his face, and stayed there for much of the day.

That night he'd bought her a ring.

But then yesterday, the phone call from Angel had messed things up again. And here he was, packing a suitcase to leave his pregnant fiancée and her hunted baby sister. 

Family obligations were a Bitch. 

He placed the picture gently into his wallet.

Some time later he walked into the hotel, California sunlight streaming in behind him, to see the astonished, and none too welcoming, face of Cordelia Chase, sitting at the front desk rooting through her purse.

"Spike- What are you doing here?"

She frowned.

"And in broad daylight?"

He smiled lasciviously at her.

"Sightseein', love. Where's the Poof?"

She looked at him like he was stupid. Of course. Angel would be sleeping, still. 

"Nevermind. Listen, didn't he tell you I was coming in?"

She shook her head at this, as she finally located the wrigley's in her purse. She pulled the pack out, and removed a stick.

"No, he didn't say anything. Want one?" she asked.

He accepted the offering, and plopped his ugly suitcase down on the floor. She was still watching him intently.

"Not to pry or anything, but, umm…How exactly is it you can be out and about and stuff?"

He groaned. Didn't Angel ever talk to these people?

"Dunno really." His shoulders lifted, and he gave her a bemused grin. "Woke up one day with a pulse. Disconcerting, that I can tell you."

Her eyes widened.

"So you're like, human now? Mortal?"

He nodded.

"No blood drinking? No superpowers?"

He cocked his head to one side.

"Well, no. No blood, anyway. No bloodlust, no demon. But the old demonic blood still has a few gifts left."

He grinned even wider.

"I'm still fast. I'm still strong. And it looks like I heal real well to boot."

She regarded him with undisguised curiousity.

"So, you're sort of like Buffy now, I guess."

He nodded at her, and sat down on the edge of the desk.

"Enough about me, pet. Why don't you tell me what Angel's got going down, here. He wasn't very specific on the phone."

Her dark eyebrows winged upwards in an annoyed arc.

"Did he tell you about Lindsay and Lilah?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"No. Never heard of them. Who are they?"

She smiled as she leaned forward. Gossip was more than just a hobby with Cordy; she had elevated it to a high art.

"Well, let me tell you. You aren't gonna BELIEVE this…"

Spike regarded his new family members with abject distrust, watching closely as Lindsay leaned over Lilah, whispering gently in her ear. He raised his head from hers, and locked eyes with Spike. There was no familiarity in that gaze, only cold mistrust. Apparently Lindsay knew too well just who Spike was, and he wasn't very happy to see him.

Of course, the introductions had been quite cordial. Angel had seen to that. It seemed his new "boy" would do nothing to anger his sire. He'd shaken Spike's hand and given him a smile of utterly phony friendship.

But Angel was gone now, and they were here alone, preparing for the 'mission'. The hostility in the room was thick enough you could almost see it. The lawyers were afraid of him, the watcher was uncomfortable with him. 

Fortunately, Cordy had warmed to his new state. She seemed fine with the whole "Newly human Ex Vampire" thing he had going. And her acceptance was good enough for Gunn. He had only to be told that Spike had assisted them in Caritas, for Gunn to shake Spike's hand and thank him for coming down here to help out.

A real gentleman, that Gunn. Spike liked him immensely within minutes of their first conversation.

But his eyes drifted back to the new, deadly duo, and he smiled wryly. Despite his protestations, despite his soulful state, Angelus had tried to recreate the family of spike's fledgeling youth. They lacked only Darla to make the picture complete. And the devotion in Lindsay's face when he looked at the pretty brunette he'd turned, that look was not foreign to Spike. 

He recognized in the pair himself, and his dark princess. Lindsay and Lilah were a soulful version of himself and Drusilla. No- Angel didn't have any "issues" with his past as Angelus. 

Right.

Lindsay stood up straight, and sauntered over to where Spike was cleaning weapons alongside Wesley. 

"She's infected the mainframe with a series of viruses. Hopefully it will serve to short out the retinal scanners and the print database." 

He shrugged.

"If it doesn't work, you won't get in anyway."

He looked Spike over, head to foot.

"You're close enough to my size. In the right clothes, security might not make the connection. Once you're inside, however, you're on your own. Are you sure your computer skills are up to it?"

Spike shrugged, and reached into his coat pocket. As he lit up a cigarette he gave his answer.

"I won't really know until I try, will I, Junior?"

The front door opened, and Angel came in, carrying a paper sack. He sat it on the table. Lindsay and Spike approached him, as he withdrew the items inside.

"This is a voice-scrambler. I've had it programmed with Lilah's range. She should still be in their database."

He handed the small contraption to Spike, and showed him how to use it.

"This earpiece will let you hear us, while you're inside. If there is any change in the plan, we will notify you this way. Should this system become compromised, the keyword is "Darla." You hear any one of us say that name and you know-"

"They've twigged to the job," Spike finished for him.

Angel nodded. Then he looked over to Wesley.

"You set up yet Wes?"

The watcher nodded.

"Yes. Just finished."

He raised the small crossbow triumphantly.

Angel turned back to Spike.

"We will be outside, on the side street. We cannot get inside, but there's an excellent chance that once you leave the building, you will be pursued. If that happens, you will at least have decent backup."

Spike nodded.

"Then let's get this show on the road."


	43. The Belly of the Beast

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #43 "The belly of the beast"

AUTHOR: Nmissi  
PART: 43/?

RATING: R (For Series)  
DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,   
what makes you think I'd share him with you?  
DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's   
going.  
Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com  
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

The security guards were no problem. He walked past them at a brisk stride, and no one even looked up. But the hallway was filled with people coming and going. Wolfram and Hart was a large and profitable law firm, doing business worldwide. Hundreds of people poured through those glass doors every day.

He headed for the rear elevator, as per the map Lindsay'd drilled into his head, and encountered no resistance when he punched the correct floor without benefit of the correct fingerprints.

Stepping from the elevator, he passed a group of women in nice suits. They didn't seem to notice him, so he proceeded to the correct hallway.

When prompted for a voice ID, he pushed the button on the small device in his pocket, and Lilah Morgan identified herself for the computer. The electronic doors swung open, and Spike moved through them.

The archives should be located in the back office, on the right. He headed that way purposefully, the new black leather attaché case in his hand lending weight to his cover.

Lindsay's suit was more cover. It itched, and the slacks were a little bit too loose through the middle, but otherwise it fit him well enough. 

He passed a full-length mirror and caught sight of his profile with relief. He appeared to be another young up and coming law-type, just another employee. Just as he should.

He walked right into the archives, and smiled at the pretty receptionist as he entered the room.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

He gave her his most Williamesque smile.

"I certainly hope so."

He put forth his hand, and announced himself.

"Debrett. From accounting. I need some financial records. Nothing major, you understand. Billings, mostly."

He smiled sheepishly.

"That time of the year again."

She laughed, and smiled back at him.

"Oh, yes. Tax season. My favorite time of the year."

She showed him to where the tax records were kept in hard copy, and then left him alone.

He put the briefcase down, and popped its latches. Carefully he removed the pistol from within, placing it inside the waistband of the slacks, under his belt. He pocketed the ammo, and rechecked his other weapons. Stakes, grenades, and crossbow. All fine, and ready to be used if the opportunity warranted it. A small handheld tazer he slipped into his other coat pocket. Then he removed a yellow legal pad and an empty file folder, then shut the case and locked it. 

Slowly he moved out of the financial records, heading for the rear wall. He caught sight of the security cameras mounted at the corners of the large room, and hoped Lilah was correct about having disabled them.

Lindsay had minimal knowledge of this area, but Lilah had been more helpful. Early in her career, she'd done many hours of research in the firm's archives. 

A computer terminal under the window greeted him cheerily, a screensaver of swimming fishes moving before him. He sat down before it, and said a quick, silent prayer.

'Hey, you. God. S'me again, Spike. Er…William. If you could be so good as to help me do this and get the hell out in one piece, I'd be much obliged. If its not too much trouble."

Then he started working the computer system.

It'd been some time since he'd had good access to a network, but fortunately Wolfram and Hart's mainframe was as old and revered as its name. He knew the ins and outs of such a system well, and within minutes he had filenames of an inventory for the archives.

Then he was prompted for a password he'd already located in the machine's files, and supplied it. 

The rear wall slid away, and a dark stone stairwell with metal torches came into view. An antechamber held a small shelf, with several boxes on it. He rose from his seat, and moved into the passage. He carefully selected a pair of rubber gloves from the box on the shelf, observing the rules clearly posted on the wall above. Then he took a torch from the wall, startling a bit when it ignited instantly for him. 

He descended into the darkness, wondering what the hell he'd gotten himself into this time.

It was a long stone stairwell, winding down deep within the earth. His heart thudded in his ears, and his mouth tasted like cotton, as he made his way. 

In his ear he heard nothing. Either the earpiece wasn't working, or they had nothing to report to him.

Finally he came to a long hallway, as unlike the stairwell as possible. 

It was white, resembling nothing so much as a hospital corridor. It was lined with doors, and each door had a number designation on it. But they were not in order, it was not "1, 2, 3", etc…rather one door displayed "7860", while its neighbor was labeled "6".

Horrible memories of the initiative complex made his breath come short. 

'Relax, mate. Relax. Nothing will give you away so badly as fainting on their floor."

He tried the doors, but they seemed to all be locked. He felt inside his pocket for his lockpick, a last minute addition to this morning's arsenal, and was glad again Gunn had suggested it. 

He picked the lock of the first door on the right, and it swung open, revealing a storeroom. The walls were lined with books.

He'd never find it this way. His heart sank.

But he moved into the room, anyway, his eyes darting around for telltale clues. The prophecy was very important, and whatever it was, it had inspired recent activity in multiple accounts. So Said Lilah, and so he believed her. Surely it would be more noticeable then.

He commenced his search.

The room held books on the occult, of various ages. Some of them appeared to be no less than ancient; paper scrolls flaking in his hands, in languages he could never hope to read. Some of them were written in dark ink that resembled blood, and he noted with distaste the feel of a strange sort of vellum that bound some of the better-preserved tomes. 

He'd seen it's like in Nazi Germany, and he shuddered. 

It looked as if Wolfram and Hart had lain hands on the holdings of the Library of Alexandria. He pondered for a moment the Council of Watchers, and wondered what price they would pay for access to this quantity of occult literature.

He was stumbling blindly through medieval texts, and records on the early Inquisition, when he became aware of a presence in the room with him.

He turned slowly, a parchment still in hand, and regarded the mild mannered man behind him.

"Can I help you to find something?" he asked, but his voice was not friendly, not helpful. Instantly Spike knew this man to be dangerous.

"Just having a look-see." Spike smiled maliciously back at the fellow, who touched something on his wrist and spoke too softly to be heard, before turning back to him.

"Backup has been called. But I think I know why you're here."

Spike's voice lilted with anger.

"Do you, now? I wonder."

The gentleman smiled kindly.

"You're looking for the millennium prophecy, I gather."

Spike just watched him. Then men dressed as police officers began coming into the room. But they were armed with wooden stakes and tazers, which were not regulation police gear the last time Spike checked. Well, anywhere but Sunnydale, anyway.

The gentleman was still smiling, and as the armed guard surrounded Spike he noticed the rip in the older man's throat.

"So sorry I failed to introduce myself. My name is Holland Manners." He said softly. Then he enquired quite politely, "And who might you be?"

Spike gave him a "Big Bad" grin.

"I'm nobody special."

Then he went into action. He kicked the legs out from under the nearest guard, and managed to snag his tazer. Then he tazered two more of them, stepping on their prone bodies as he hastened to reach the door. 

One of the guards managed to get a purchase on his shoulders, and a second rammed a wooden stake into his chest, puncturing his lung. He gasped for air, bleeding, as he broke the second guard's neck.

"He's human," somebody said.

Manners voice was pleased.

"Excellent!" he said.

It took four more men to restrain him, but Spike finally went down amid kicks and punches, and the occasional tazer. 

"Get him up, boys."

He was lifted, and hung between two guards. They shuffled him over to Manners.

His hand came up alongside Spike's cheek, pinching it gently.

"You wanted the Millenium Prophecy, yes?"

Spike was too wounded to argue, too wounded for a cutting reply. He hung there wordlessly, desperately clinging to consciousness. 

The man turned, and they followed him into the hallway, then down the corridor.

He stopped at a white door labeled "7890a", then ordered the men to stand back, as he produced keys and unlocked the door. 

His hand on the doorhandle, he turned back to Spike.

"I think we can oblige you in your search."

Spike summoned his strength enough to mumble a question.

"It's in there?"

Holland nodded.

"Yes. We keep the Millenium Prophecy in here, under very tight supervision."

He opened the door and the guards threw Spike inside, upon the floor. Then they closed the door and locked it.

He sat up in the darkness, looking around.

This room was unlike the other. Not a library, not a storeroom, this was a cell. The floor was dirt, the walls smelled of dank mold like the staircase. And somewhere in the room, on the far side of it, he heard a familiar snuffling sound.

Weeping. 

Then the laughter followed it, and he choked on his words as he called out pitifully to her.

"Dru?"


	44. Terrible Lucidity

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #44 "Terrible Lucidity"

AUTHOR: Nmissi  
PART: 44/?

RATING: R (For Series)  
DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,   
what makes you think I'd share him with you?  
DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's   
going.  
Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com  
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

"The line's dead, Angel. There's no signal." Wesley reported, as gently as he possibly could. Beside him, Gunn fiddled with the equipment knobs futilely, then raised his head to back Wes up.

"Everything checks out, equip-wise. They just tampered with his reception. I think we gotta assume they knew about us this whole time, man."His cool calm was a façade; he had like and respected Spike. Now he feared the worst.

The dark vampire sagged visibly at the news. Behind him, his new childer moved in close, offering him the comfort of flesh, as they pressed their hands to him. Lindsay patted his shoulder, and Lilah took his hand.

"Do you want to go in after him?" Lindsay's question was honest. He didn't like Spike, didn't share his maker's affections. But the man was blood, of a sort- Family. And if Angel sent him in there after the human, Lindsay would go willingly.

He just hoped against hope that wasn't the way things worked out.

Angel shook his head. 

"No. No, we do what we discussed. We wait."

And they did.

Her muffled laughter helped him to find her in the darkness. He crawled to it, choking on the blood in his mouth, wheezing from his lung. The useless gun in his belt dug into the flesh of his belly, pressed up against the dirt floor. 

He'd never even had a chance to draw down on them. 

His hand contacted her shoulder first; cool hard skin against his palm. Then her hair, as she turned her face towards him, giggling.

"Spike. My Spike."

The giggling stopped short, and her voice was brittle.

"No. Not my Spike. Not mine. Nevermore."

She hissed at him, drawing farther into the corner.

"Warm now, and dying. Your blood dripping out your chest like raindrops. Do you eat raindrops, William?"

She laughed again.

"They taste like moonlight."

His hands searched her, and he realized she was naked. And he realized she was drawn and thin, as he traced her ribcage, her collarbones, her hipbones.

She was doubtless weaker than she'd been in years…

Weaker than after Prague.

How long since they'd fed her? He wondered, and the thought made him angry. How dare they do this? She was one of an ancient and powerful bloodline. She was respected and feared throughout the world; her name alone provoked terror among fledglings. Drusilla the Mad, child of Angelus. It was a name used to cow your rebels, a cautionary tale told to your young ones. 

And she was locked starving in a damp cell underneath a prosperous Los Angeles law firm.

The indignity was not to be borne.

Her silence couldn't disguise the hitch of her sobs as they shook her. 

"Ssh, pet. I'm here now. Spike's here. I'll get you out of this, I promise."

He just wasn't sure how he'd do that right now.

He settled for pulling her tight against him, and holding her, stroking her the silk of her hair. She clung to him, her hands tracing the wounds on his skin, memorizing them.

She was murmuring again, quietly; unintelligible words that sounded like music in her singsong lilt. He thought carefully over their options. 

Somehow, she was the thing he'd been sent for. The irony of the situation was rich; he'd spent hours looking for something in a book, or on a scroll. But it didn't exist in that form. 

"Dru, love. I need to talk to you, baby. I need to know about the prophecy you gave these people."

She ignored him, twisting her hair into a ring around her finger.

He kissed the top of her head, and listened to her ramble, mixing nursery stories and poetry, a weird amalgam of ideas and nonsense.

Her tone changed, becoming clear.

"Not prophecy, lovely William."

She continued, in all seriousness, " Your fish's tail, which amongst us is considered so beautiful, is thought on earth to be quite ugly; they do not know any better, and they think it necessary to have two stout props, which they call legs, in order to be handsome."

He felt her eyes upon him in the black room.

"But you've lost your fish's tail, Spike. If it cost not your tongue, it cost your spine… When she loves someone else, and not you, Will you turn to foam and slip back into the sea?"

She licked her lips softly.

"You'll make such lovely foam."

His jaw tightened, and he tried to avoid her question.

"Drusilla, WHAT DID YOU SAY TO THE LAWYERS?"

She crawled up him, and his heart sped up. The blood. She could smell his blood, and she was hungry. 

He had never feared Dru, and the emotion was unnerving. But she was sniffing him, and for the first time, he was perceiving her as predator. He backed up slightly, his pulse thrumming in his ears, his heart trying to pound its way out of his chest. 

She crept forward, on him again, plaintive and whining.

"I don't want an immortal soul."

She threw her head back in an ugly laugh as she added,

"I should live three hundred years and then slip back into the seafoam."

It was coming together for him, now. He was badly out of practice with Druspeak. She was babbling bits of "The Little Mermaid". Not Disney's blighted kiddieversion, but the darker Hans Christian Anderson tale. An ugly little story about a mermaid who wanted a human soul, and a human husband. She failed miserably, and was given the option of ending herself, or her beloved, redeeming herself when she apparently chose Suicide. All very depressing and silly, if you asked him.

It was a story right up Dru's alley, but he failed to see how it related to himself, or to Angel.

She petted him gently, her hands sliding over his hair, stroking the planes of his face. She climbedastride him, as his lung whistled and sucked.

"I've missed you, Spike."

She brought her lips to his ear, and he shivered, but not in anticipation.

"Mummy's missed her beautiful boy. All my babies are gone."

Her voice was mournful in this disclosure. She licked his chin, where the blood had pooled and crusted.

"The Order of Aurelius is cursed, my lovely. We are blighted before our kine. Humanity creeps in the blood. Immortal souls infect immortal flesh, and we are hated by our own, and hunted by our gods."

Shoving futilely at her, he struggled to make sense of her words. The Order is cursed. Was this the prophecy? How was it cursed?

"It creeps, my knight," she whispered, " It draws near to Daddy, and his newborn. It took you from me, but I shall have you back."

He pushed frantically at her shoulders, as her head came down to tear at his throat. He understood her all too well now, and the prospect horrified him.

She was offering him everything he'd lost. In a matter of hours, he could be himself again. He could stalk the night, fearless and proud. He could be William the Bloody, he could be Spike the Vampire, once more.

It astonished him how wholly unappealing the offer was.

"Dru, No. Don't do this, I beg you.Please, I can't."

Her fangs entered him, and the sensation was exquisite. She was killing him again, draining that powerful demonic blood that still moved inside his veins.

He was losing himself, slipping under. Soon she would give him the blood, and he would be too weak to stop her. 

Everything he had gained, he would lose. He understood Angel now. He finally appreciated the gift of his mortality, now that he was about to lose it.

"Dru, No. I won't- I can't- do this."

With his last reserves of strength, he pulled her hair, hard, and somehow disengaged her head from his neck. He could smell his blood, dripping off her fangs onto his forehead.

"Raindrops, my Spike. They're like warm raindrops."

He scrambled to escape her, but she came after him.

"You're dying, pretty. That mortal heart is beating too quickly, now, and you search for breath like a flopping fish on the sand. Your wicked blood is running out of you like seawater… All gone…You'll be foam and slip away."

She had her singsong "I know a secret" voice going, now.

"Let mummy kiss it better."

It was the same this time, yet it was different. She was soft and willing, offering deliverance from his pain and his suffering. 

But a hundred years ago he had nothing left to live for.

Things were decidedly different now.

She was leaning over him, close enough that her fetid, bloody breath overwhelmed.

"No, Dru. I don't want it. I don't want You."

"But you will," she promised. Her hair brushed his face, as she leaned in close over him.

He reached into his belt.

She cried out in anguish, pulling away as the pistol exploded. He'd hit her, somewhere in the chest, or maybe the midsection. Wherever, he'd got his shot in, and she was wounded now.

"I don't want to hurt you again, baby. But I won't let you do it to me. Not again, not this time. You get near me once more, and I will blow your damn head off."

She laughed quietly.

" So lost, now. Slipping away….taking your immortal soul and turning to foam…"

He felt around for the door, and after several minutes he found it. He could still hear his Black Beauty across the room, going on about souls and darkness, about mermaids and legs. He tuned it out, as he fumbled for his lockpick, and scrabbled at the lock. Luck was with him, and it swung open with a soft whine.

He peered out, still crouched low. It was terribly bright outside, in the hallway, after the blackness of Drusilla's cell. 

"She doesn't love you, Spike. And you shall be hunted, to the ends of the earth. You and all our ilk. We are accursed. We are accursed."

He didn't look back, only crawled out on his hands and knees, gun clutched in his fist. Whosoever should be unlucky enough to cross his path was going to be shot, he'd had enough of this place, these evil people. He considered the Drusilla problem and left the cell door open. 

Let them deal with her. Hopefully she'd feast on them.

He dragged himself along the wall back to the stairwell, and began inching upwards. He was lightheaded from the blood loss, and just staying awake was an arduous task. 

Spying the security guard before the security guard noticed him could be chalked up to divine providence. He screwed the silencer in his jacket pocket onto the end of the pistol, and one careful shot took him out of the picture. 

But how to get out of here?

At the top of the steps, he saw another guard. This one was reading a magazine as he stood blocking the exit. Spike took careful aim, and cut a neat hole through the fellow's forehead. 

He pitched forward, falling down the stairs. Spike grabbed the body as it fell, and hauled it to one side. He hurriedly stripped his clothes off, and the guards. Then he dressed in the uniform, taking care to switch his weapons. 

He heard Drusilla down the hall, singing, and knew his time was running short. She would surely draw their attention, now that she was loose. He had no time to lose.

He moved out of the stairwell and into the library archives. He took note of the window over the computer desk, and considered his options.

Could he get back through the building unmolested?

His choice made, he picked up the computer monitor and tossed it through the window, breaking out leaded glass. Then he peered out into an alleyway some three stories below.

He could see the car. Hot damn. He could see the car.

Behind him, he heard alarms going off, and the door opened. More guards in uniforms like the one he was wearing, began coming into the room.

"She's out of her cell," he said.

When several of them moved into the stairwell he thought his cover might have worked. But others moved in to flank him, cutting off the door. 

There were too many; he didn't have that many shots left.

He took a deep breath, and threw himself out the open window.


	45. Fallout

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn # 45 Fallout

AUTHOR: Nmissi 

PART: 45/? 

DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,

what makes you think I'd share him with you? 

DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's

going. 

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com 

SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

Willow's eyes were wide, taking in two carats of marquis cut solitaire glinting on her friend's hand.

"It's gorgeous," she breathed.

Buffy grinned.

"Ya think so? I dunno. I mean, it's definitely better than the last one."

Willow confused expression slowly turned to understanding, and she blushed.

"I'm really sorry about that"-

But Buffy intercepted her, laying a gentle hand on her arm.

"Teasing, Wil. I'm just teasing you!"

A small frown creased her brow, and she grew serious.

" You know, though- If you hadn't done that spell, maybe things wouldn't be this way now. I mean, maybe that whole thing let us think about each other in a different way. So in a way, we really ought to thank you."

Taking in the dark cast of Willow's eyes, Buffy's rushed to lighten the mood.

"Hey, maybe you're so powerful with the witch-foo, maybe we're still spelled. D'ya think?"She beamed.

Willow's eyes searched Buffy's for reassurance.

"Are you happy, Buffy? Really happy? I mean- Does Spike make you happy?"

Buffy smiled softly, her face suffused in warm pinkness.

"Yeah, Willow. I think maybe he does."

"Help me get him out of these clothes."

Angel was frantic, pulling at the policemen's uniform with both hands, in the back of the van, as they sped down the street.

Lindsay pulled at the sleeve, sliding it off of the broken body. Up over a badly mangled arm, down a limp and misshapen wrist, he tugged. Below him Angel settled for cutting the trousers off legs too badly mangled to bend properly.

"What are you doing?" asked Cordelia indignantly.

"He can't go to the hospital dressed like this, it will raise too many questions," came Lindsay's irritated answer.

"Oh, and I suppose hauling him Buck-Naked into emergency is a better option?"

Together the vampires answered her.

"Yes."

She gave up and took the clothes as they were offered to her, rolling them into a ball and stuffing them in between a pair of seats.

"I don't think we should have moved him," she added.

Angel's voice was terse.

"We couldn't exactly hang around waiting for an ambulance, could we? Any minute, those guards would have followed him out onto the street. Did you find anything in his clothes?"

She shook her head. 

"Nothing. Whatever it is, he didn't bring a copy out with him, and Gunn didn't trace any uploads. I- I don't think he got it, Angel."

His groan wounded her. He was disappointed, but it was more than that. They had wasted this opportunity. Spike was hurt badly, maybe dying, and the mission had failed. They would not get another opportunity to locate the prophecy. 

Angel was berating himself silently for having taken such a chance. He was used to thinking of Spike as unconquerable, undefeatable. But mortals have their limits. Somehow he'd convinced himself Spike would come out of this whole thing all right.

Tracing his hand over the bruised flesh of Spike's face, Angel remembered. And if the memories stung his eyes, they also served to balm his heart. 

His boy was a firebrand. Surely a little thing like falling out of a three -story building wouldn't keep him down long.

Up front, Gunn rotated the steering wheel sharply as he cut into and out of the downtown traffic, headed for University Hospital. Beside him, Wesley argued into the phone.

"Look, you silly little- I don't care what he did to you. You get those papers and you get over to university hospital….PUT A HAT ON OR SOMETHING. For God's sake, woman- If Angel can go about in the daylight, there is no earthly reason why you can't... Call a taxi, then!…Listen, there's a motor garage adjacent to the hospital. You need never even SEE the sun…Harmony, Stop your whining. If you want to be taken seriously as a member of this team, then you'll have to pull your own weight. That means putting aside your personal differences and working with the group. Get his papers and get over here NOW."

He hung up on Harmony with a slow hiss of exasperation.

"She not coming?" asked Gunn.

Wes looked over at him.

"She's coming. I just wonder how much it's going to cost us. The last time I asked Harmony for a favor she maxed out my credit card."

"It's very pretty, Buffy," said Tara quietly.

They were gathered around in the Bridal Salon, watching Buffy try on discount dresses. The current choice was a frilly white concoction with too much lace and too little neckline.

"I don't know. I think it's too froofy. What about you, Willow?"

Willow made a face.

"You look more like the cake than the bride."

Buffy sighed, and stepped down off of the riser in front of the mirrors.

"Maybe I'm not white wedding material."

Anya jumped in, from the rack she was thumbing.

"I like this one. Why does it have to be white, anyway? I mean, you're not exactly a-"

Willow cut her off.

"Anya- No ragging on the bride, okay? This is a happy day. When you get married, you can have a white dress too, if you want."

Anya shook her head.

"But I like the pink one better."

She held up a monstrous prom dress with an enormous butt bow.

Buffy shook her head, smiling.

"Nah, definitely nothing with a butt-bow. Here, somebody get me out of this thing."

They waited in the corridor for word, watching time tick past on the wall clock.

"Why are hospitals always done in green?" asked Cordy, as she flipped through a Mademoiselle magazine.

"Green is supposed to be soothing," Angel commented absently. Beside him, Lilah dozed, her head against Lindsay, sitting to her other side.

Harmony ran up to them, huffing and puffing with lost breath she didn't need. She wore a large black hat, with a veil, black gloves, a wool cape, and dark clothes.

"He's not dead yet, Harm," shot Cordy acidly.

She rolled her eyes at them under the veil, then realized they couldn't see it. So she pulled the veil back and glared hard at the other girl.

" I'm just trying to keep out of the sun, okay?" 

She scowled.

"It's just not natural, this whole 'keeping human hours' thing. It's gross. I haven't had enough sleep. You don't even want to know how long it took me to do my makeup -"

"Harmony, where are the papers?"

Angel's question was direct. Harmony groaned painfully and shoved the parcel into his hands.

"Here. Take your stupid papers. I don't know why he needs them anyway. A driver's license, his wallet, green card…"

Gunn jumped in, leafing through dollar bills on his money clip. He gave her a dazzling smilewell-suited to melt knees.

"Harmony. Here, go get us a couple sodas, sweetie, please?"

She took the money and smirked.

"See? Some people know how to ASK for a lady's help."

She waltzed off, towards the coke machines. Behind her Wesley gave a low moan of exasperation.

"You didn't really want a coke, did you?."

His friend chuckled, shaking his head.

"Nah man. I just like to watch her walking away. It's always a better view."

Angel was leafing through the folder, pulling out information. It was all there. The phony id's, the phony green cards…All the necessary information for Spike's mortal paper trail. If he lived through this, his real records would begin here, in this hospital. Where they were already astonished at his resistance to injury. After all, people falling out of third story windows usually exemplify more of the splat factor.

He was too nervous by half; the waiting was intense. Hurriedly Angel pushed the papers at Cordelia.

"Here. Hang onto these, put them in your purse. They'll need them later for the paperwork."

She nodded, and Angel turned to his childer, stretched on the couch.

Lilah sat snugly against the curve of Lindsay's side, one leg curled up beneath her. Her dark locks fell over Lindsay's arm, pillowing her head. Lindsay stroked it occasionally, as if for comfort, as he waited with his maker. 

Angel placed a hand on his shoulder, tenderly.

"Lindsay, you don't have to stay here like this. You can go ahead and take her home if you want to." 

He stroked a fallen lock back into place behind her ear, his eyes meeting Lindsay's above Lilah's head. 

"I know you're both exhausted."

Lindsay looked down at his sleeping companion. God, but she looked innocent in her sleep. All softly pretty. 

How deceptive looks could be.

He raised his head back to Angel, and shook it.

"No. You stay, we stay."

Hard resolve in his voice, he added,

"We're family."

Behind them, Cordelia interrupted.

"Um? What is this?"

She had Spike's wallet, open now in her left hand. With her right she held a small slip of paper, roughly 3X4 in diameter. 

She studied it carefully.

"Is this what I think it is?"

Gunn snatched it from her hand easily, and brought it close enough to view.

"Hey, I think this is one of them baby pictures. Ultrasound."

He turned it slightly.

"Is that supposed t' be the head?" '

He flipped it.

"Or is that?"

Angel walked over and put his hand out. Gunn handed him the picture, and Angel raised it to his face.

It was definitely an ultrasound picture, the black background interrupted by a triangular patch of grey, with a very small dark something in the center.

The name in the upper left corner was quite clear, even at this small size and with such low resolution.

'Summers, Buffy. 00010209.' 

It was dated two weeks ago. 

He studied it carefully, but couldn't make much of it. Two small blobs, one perhaps a head, one maybe a torso.

"or else its Siamese twins," he mused.

"What?" exclaimed Cordelia.

He looked back over at her.

"Nothing. Never mind. Did you get this out of his wallet?"

She nodded.

"I was looking for his insurance card."

He handed the ultrasound picture to her.

"Put it back where it was." 

"What is it that you want me to say, Buffy?"

Giles was obviously angry, but Buffy pressed on. She had to convince him, had to help him see her side of things.

"I was sort of hoping you'd just be happy for me. You know, the whole 'congratulations' thing."

He sighed, pushing his glasses up on his nose as he looked at her.

"I can't say that, Buffy. I wish you well, but I cannot say that I think this is the right decision, for either you, or your…"

"Baby. You can say it, Giles. 'Baby'. It's okay."

He shook his head at her.

"Are you even certain of that, Buffy?"

Her confusion was evident. He tried to explain himself.

"I realize that Spike is mortal- er, Human, now. But surely there is the possibility for… difficulties. Buffy, his body was 'dead' for well over a hundred years. You must have considered the possibility of chromosomal defect, of tissue damage-"

She cut him off.

"No. I do NOT consider those things. We've had an ultrasound; the baby is fine. I'm fine."

She perked up, shoulders lifting.

"My doctor is even pleased with the weight I'm gaining. I've packed on one and a halfpounds between my last visits."

She said this last as if it were a colossal achievement. Given her waning appetite, she rather felt like it was.

He sat back against the sofa, his hands shaking. Buffy reached to still one in a gentle grip.

"Giles, He loves me, we're getting married, and we're having a baby."

He squeezed her hand back, and her confidence grew. She resumed the speech she'd practiced on her way over here.

"You're more than just my watcher, Giles. You're my friend, probably my best friend. You've been a father to me, you've held my hand and helped me grow- You've made me a better person. I understand how you feel about Spike; I get that. But I want you to realize how much it would mean to me, if you would give me away at the wedding. Not for Spike; for Buffy. Because it won't be right, it won't be as special if you aren't there beside me."

She watched him struggle to put his words together, and his thoughts were so clear they seemed etched in ink on his forehead. He didn't WANT to give her away, and certainly not to the likes of Spike the Ex-vampire, William the bloody awful Bum who drank too much and had held his job for less than a month.

"Buffy, I appreciate the honor of your request. It's touching that you feel that way about me, that-"

"I LOVE you, Giles. Don't mince words. I love you, and I want you to walk me down the aisle on my wedding day."

He turned to her, in earnest seriousness.

"Buffy, how can you forget what all he has done? How can you, of all people, pledge your heart and soul to a soulless demon? Make no mistake, Buffy. He's mortal now, but the demon is still there. He doesn't deny it. If there's a soul in that godforsaken body it's a demonic one. How can you forget that? How can you forgive it?"

Buffy watched his face closely, as his differing emotions flitted across it. She had to help him get through this. Things could not go on as they were.

"Giles, you told me once that people are not forgiven because they deserve it, but because they need it. Well, Spike needs it. No, he doesn't deserve it- but he needs it. We need it."

She hesitated a moment before continuing.

"And you need it too. The way you feel about him is no good, for anybody. You hurt yourself, with all this anger you have for him."

She lowered her eyes.

"And you hurt me, too."

He raised her chin with his index finger, looking into her eyes. His own were full of pity and sadness, but he nodded.

"I can try, Buffy. For you, I will try."

Angel watched the monitors. Blip. Blip. Blip. 

That human heart was still demonically fierce; it thudded onward in spite of everything. The doctors were amazed. Mr. Walthrop had sustained "massive trauma and extreme blood loss." There was a vamp bite that had nearly severed his jugular in his neck, and his legs were fractured in sixteen places. He had major head trauma. 

They were quite surprised he'd even made it to the hospital alive.

Suddenly Angel felt a hand on his shoulder.

He looked up, into the warm eyes of Wesley.

"Here. I've brought you something to eat."

He held out a thermos of the hot, lifesustaining fluid, and Angel accepted it gratefully. He'd not fed since yesterday evening. Nor had he yet slept. Everyone else had gone home when they'd gotten Spike into a room and out of surgery, but not he. No, Angel identified himself as family. He'd signed all the paperwork, he'd given a statement to the police that was elaborate fiction. And now he kept vigil at the bedside, watching; waiting. 

The chair squeaked across the floor tiles as Wesley dragged it over beside him, and sat down.

"Any change?" he enquired gently.

Angel shook his head.

"No. Nothing yet. They tell me there is sufficient brain activity, and that he can probably hear us."

He gave a wry smile and spoke up in his most commanding, 'Sire' voice.

"William. Wake up, Now. Stop laying there like a corpse; you haven't been one in quite awhile. You've got work to do, boy. Get your ass out of that bed."

But Spike slumbered on, and Angel lowered his head into his hands.

Wesley wrapped an arm around his shaking shoulders as Angel's sobs wracked his body.

"It's my fault, Wes. I should never have sent him in there. I knew it was dangerous; I knew this could happen. But somehow I didn't think that it would. My pride, always my massive pride and ego. He's my boy, my blood runs in his veins. He's as much my son as if I'd born him- I thought that meant he was invincible. I mean, he always has been. No matter what I did to him, no matter how I wounded him, he always overcame, usually with a few cutting comments and some snide words."

He sniffled.

"God what I wouldn't give to hear him cut me down right now. Make fun of my hair, my taste in women, my clothes, my angst. I'd love to see him get out of that bed and pound the living Shit out of me."

He looked over at Wes, amusement glimmering in his damp eyes. 

"He's the only child I ever raised who could do that, consistently. Win against me, that is. We've always been pretty evenly matched that way. I remember some fights that lasted for hours; we'd tear the house up and each other to ribbons, while the women watched and waited for us to get over it. A lot of the time, by the time it was all over neither one of us would remember what we were fighting about; and we'd just sit there laughing together, amid the broken furniture."

Wes tried to be comforting; he hugged his mentor and murmured soothing words.

Finally Angel pulled away, as an idea hit him.

"Has anyone tried to call Sunnydale yet?"

Wesley shook his head.

"No, Angel. We thought- We thought it best if you did that."

His voice lowered, and he added.

"I really think the news should come from you."

Angel sighed, and sat up straighter. 

"Will you sit with him while I go call? I can't use a cellphone in here, it will mess with the equipment."

Buffy rolled over and smacked her hand at the receiver, feeling around in the darkness until her hand found purchase, and lifted it to her ear.

"Hello?" she muttered.

"Buffy? Hi. It's Angel."

Her senses sharpened, and she sat up in the bed.

"Angel? Hi…What's wrong?"

His disconsolate silence unnerved her. Finally he took a deep breath, and began.

"Buffy, Spike's here in the hospital. It's- It's bad."


	46. Admissions

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn # 46

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn # 46 "Admissions"

AUTHOR: Nmissi 

PART: 46/50

DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,

what makes you think I'd share him with you? 

DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's 

going. 

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com 

SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

Buffy sat quietly in the seat alongside the bed. The magazine in her hand only nominally held her attention; she'd reread the same paragraph on spring flowerbed arrangements twice already, and still didn't know what it said. In the corner of the room, perched on the heat register, Dawn painted her toenails with black polish inside their brown sandals. At the foot of the bed, Angel paced.

Irritated at him, Buffy glared. He ignored her.

"Would you please stop that? It's not helping anything."

He gave her an apologetic half-shrug.

"Okay."

He stopped, and stood sentry at the foot of the bed.

Things had been tense between them every since she'd arrived this morning, and they didn't look like they were going to get much better. Initially, she'd argued with him, but he failed to give her the answers she was looking for. Finally she'd settled upon cool disdain. It seemed to be working- She certainly felt better, and the shame in his face everytime he looked her way mollified her.

"Why don't you go on home, Angel?' she asked him again. It was the third time. Again he shook his head no. He'd been here since they'd brought Spike in, and he would not leave before his boy woke up. Angel cared a great deal for Buffy. But he owed this to Spike, owed him his presence, and whatever comfort he might derive from it. Buffy didn't realize the familial bond, but he did. Spike was no longer a vampire, but he had more than a lifetime's experience as one. He still carried much resentment over his "abandonment". Angel was determined he not feel abandoned again.

Buffy resumed her reading. Moments later, Dawn cursed quietly as she knocked over the polish.

"Shit."

"Dawn!"

Buffy gave her a shocked look, but it failed to move the girl. She scooped up the bottle quickly, before the liquid could run out. As she bent, the leg of her jeans creeped up, and Buffy could see a small tattoo peeking out at her.

"What is that?" she asked coldly.

Dawn gave her a blank look.

"What?"

Buffy pointed.

"On your leg. That thing."

Dawn lifted her brows nonchalantly.

"It's a tattoo, Buffy."

Her sister continued to stare at her.

"I know that, Dawn. But what is it doing on your leg?"

Dawn grimaced. She'd hoped Buffy wouldn't find out, and she'd been very careful so far. It was just bad luck this should come out right now, at a time like this.

"It's just a tattoo, okay? Lots of people have them."

Buffy looked slightly uncomfortable, but not enough to let the matter drop.

"Did I SAY you could get one? I don't think so. And where did you get the money for it?"

"It was my birthday money from Dad. You said I could spend it on whatever I wanted. So I did."

Buffy got up, and edged past Angel, who smirked a little at their exchange.

"Let me see it."

Dawn grabbed the fabric at her left knee and gave it a tug upwards, exposing the picture on her calf. Buffy leaned over to look at it.

It was a small key, with an ornate handle, very Victorian in design. It was in three colors; blue, red, and indigo. Very pretty, if it wasn't defacing her little sister's body.

"I can't believe you did that to yourself."

Dawn just shrugged.

"I dunno- thought it was kinda cool. Sorry you don't like it."

She left off the words, "too bad," but her tone implied them.

"We'll discuss this when we get home, Dawn."

"Yeah. Okay- Whatever." She resumed painting her toes.

Buffy stood next to the bed, watching Spike sleep. The bruises on his face were turning to a pale yellow, and preliminary x-rays suggested his bones were healing at the same accelerated rate.

He was healing like a slayer. The irony was not lost on her.

Angel watched as Buffy traced a hand over Spike's cheek, along the lengthy bruise. Her gesture was tender, and answered many questions for him.

"You love him, don't you?" he asked.

She stared up at him, annoyed.

"That really is none of your business, is it, Angel?"

In the back of a van moving inexorably along the highway, three captives traveled under the watchful gaze of minions.

"Are we there yet?" asked Willow of the one referred to as Moog.

His warty face shifted into a warm and childlike smile.

"No, Miss Willow. We are still many miles from our destination. The magnificent Glorificus commands us to observe the speed limits."

She edged a worried glance over to where Xander lay, bound and unconscious, beside her.

"I don't think he should lay like that, really. I mean, it looks uncomfortable."

"Yeah! It's not bad enough you three beat him to a pulp, but you've tied him up badly. And he even was knocked out at the time. Can't any of you do a halfway decent job of a kidnapping? I mean, when I was a demon, I'd have-"

The second minion smiled apologetically at Anya, and lifted the sleeping boy into a sitting position, propping him against the side of the van. He stuffed Xander's jacket underneath his arm to keep him upright.

"Is that better, Miss Anya?"

She sniffed slightly.

"A little."

Dawn flipped through the pages of People magazine, trying hard to ignore the Springer show segment unfolding in the room with her.

"For the last time, Buffy. I don't have a problem with it. You chose Spike- Fine. I get that. But I don't-"

"You don't what? Like it? Tough."

He sighed wearily.

"No, Buffy. I wasn't going to say that. What I don't get is WHY you chose him."

He shifted uncomfortably. There was a good possibility Spike was hearing every word they said in here. If he could just get her to say it, maybe it would help.

She glared back at him.

"Why wouldn't I?"

He shook his head.

"Buffy, the way things are now, it makes sense. He's human, he's as strong as you are. But you were with him when he wasn't human. And I don't understand why."

She laughed at him, an ugly laugh with none of the warmth he used to love in her.

"You think you're pretty special, don't you Angel? I mean, The Powers that Be chose you, out of all the vampires in the world, to have a soul. They sent you back from hell they liked you so much. But you know what? Spike got "Redeemed" all by his lonesome. Nobody gave him a soul. Nobody sent him visions to tell him what to do. There was no Special Prophecy to guide him. Only his heart. He fell in love with me, and decided to be a better person."

She looked at him squarely.

"Isn't that reason enough to choose him?"

Angel relaxed. Even if she couldn't say it out loud, her answer was crystal clear about how she felt for Spike.

But she went on.

"What do you think happened to him, Angel? Do you wonder why he became human again?"

He looked back at her. What was she intimating?

She continued.

"Here's what I think. So you're supposed to be the "Good" vampire. You get chance after chance to get it right, and still you fall off the wagon occasionally. What? You think I don't know about Kate? Or Darla? Please. Cordy's faster than a fax. I know it all, Angel. But I think maybe that God got himself a new "good" vampire. I think about all the decency and kindness Spike is capable of, and I think that Maybe you won't get to be human after all. 'Cos Spike's already done it. He's already "Shanshu'ed or whatever. He got your prize, because he's a better person than you."

Angel stepped forward, close enough to nearly touch her.

Nothing she said was anything he hadn't already thought of.

"Tell him that you love him," he said quietly.

She scoffed.

"Why? So you can believe it?" she asked.

He shook his head at her.

"No. So he can."

They unloaded Xander with the utmost care, and Anya felt just a little bit better. If not for the goddess, she thought maybe she and Willow could take them- the little scaly minion guys were fairly peaceable acting.

She and Willow stepped out into the sunlight, blinking a little. 

"Oh, Wow." Said the witch.

They were faced with a long line of armed guards. Men in nice three piece suits raised large guns and pointed them in their direction.

Glory stepped up to them, positively radiant in a Norma Kamali number with spaghetti straps.

"Guys! Long time no see!"

She gave Willow a sympathetic grin.

"Gee, sorry about your girlfriend. She put up a good fight, though. Real Butch, that one."

Willow bit her lip tightly, and wondered where Tara was right now. In the melee, she'd gone down mumbling when Glory grabbed her head. It was too much to hope she was alright, but she could not let this bitch see her cry.

The bitch in question snaked a hand out to rub the knotted cord wrapped around Willow's neck.

"Looks so simple, doesn't it? Braided rope and twine. But it works well enough, doesn't it?"

Willow tried not to think about it. Whatever the item was, it made her slow and groggy; it made it almost impossible to concentrate. If she were clearer headed, she might could figure out what sort of magic it was, but unfortunately all cylinders weren't firing right now.

She looked up, and realized they were in the parking lot of a hospital. 

"Let's go get my key!" Glory bubbled.

They headed for the front entrance.


	47. Hospital

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #47

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #47 "Hospital"

AUTHOR: Nmissi 

PART: 47/50

DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,

what makes you think I'd share him with you? 

DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's

going. 

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com 

SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

The first thing he was aware of was the unpleasant olefactory trio of unwashed skin, mothballs, and wet dog. As he blinked his eyes open, the world came into a shaking focus.

Oddly enough, the world seemed to consist of moving colored tiles. They shifted before his eyes, moving upward and out of his vision, always to be replaced by new ones of similar design but with a different spacial arrangement. 

Xander Harris came slowly to his senses over the shoulder of a small demonic minion. His face was up close and personal with the minion's rump, and the smell of mothballs seemed to be coming from the minion's robes.

Some days it just didn't pay to get out of bed. His head ached, and from the numbness in his hands he assumed his wrists were tied.

Ooh, yes…Tied wrists. It was all coming back to him, now.

He'd been snuggled into bed after a long, and satisfying, session with Anya, when their home was violated. He'd heard a noise in the living room, and, disregarding everything every horror movie he'd ever seen in his life had told him, Xander carefully picked up a lamp and charged into the living room, half-naked and half alert. 

He never even had a chance. A few whacks up side the head with his furniture, and he'd gone down for the count. Anya had gotten better licks in; at least she had broken a vase over one of their heads before they got a squirming hold of her.

Damn. That vase and the end table still weren't completely paid for yet.

He could tell they were moving down a long, tiled corridor. And he knew Anya was still near; her cloying "Chantilly no. 5" hung in the air like noxious cloud. Between his splitting headache and all the awful smells, it was a struggle not to throw up where he lay. 

He pictured the minion, covered in goo, and thought about it. Then he realized anyone who smelled this bad probably wouldn't object to smelling worse, so he scrapped the puking plan and settled for covertness: he'd continue to play faint, for as long as he could get away with it.

Spike became gradually aware of the pain, mostly in his chest, but also in his face, and his legs- even in his arms. He sort of hurt all over in a generalized ache. Groggily, he lifted heavy eyelids and strained to focus.

She was asleep in the chair next to him, her blonde hair spilling over his arm, as she slumped forward, resting her head on the bed. He wished he could touch that gold silk, but there was an iv line taped into that arm making movement impossible. 

"You're awake."

Angel's voice was carefully neutral, but Spike saw the relief in his eyes, and was a little surprised. For so long, they had been estranged. He had thought his grandsire had no love left for him, as recently as last year. Had he been blind to it all this time? Had he let his insecurities and his anger get in the way? For better or worse, Angel was blood. Even when he'd hated him, he'd been unable to kill him. 

He thought about the whole Amara deal, how he'd hired the best professional torturer money could buy. If he'd truly hated Angel, he'd have simply dusted him. Instead he'd hired Marcus. While the ordeal was under way, he'd studied Angel carefully. At the time, he'd convinced himself it was all about getting the gem. But it never really was, and he saw that now. It was about proving himself to Angel;it was about living up to an image his "father" had set for him.

It was an image that had never been truly real. Oh, make no mistake. He'd reveled in being the "Big Bad." But it was always a role, always something apart from what he thought of as himself, the real William, the real Spike. It was a protective shell for a gentler nature he could rarely afford to indulge.

Oh, they were quite a pair, the two of them. Maybe they could get family therapy. Maybe throw in Dru and Darla as well; get a discount rate. They could cry and argue, and toss the accusations around. In the end they could eat the therapist.

Well, he couldn't. But he could watch.

'Spike, my good man, what kind of drugs are you on?'he asked himself. 

To Angel he lolled a slow grin.

" Eh, mate… Good to see you."

Angel's face relaxed into a broad smile.

"It's good to see you, too. You don't know just how good."

Willow stumbled along the green hallway, ahead of the red clad goddess and her minions. Beside her, Anya walked with her head held high and proud. Willow wished she could do that, but it took all her concentration to keep her feet moving in the right direction and not stepping on each other. 

Armed guards brought up the rear, behind the minions.They moved in exorably down the hallway.

Glory held a leash in her hand, and guided the biggest and ugliest dog Willowhad ever seen. It was longhaired and black, and stood approximately ribcage-high.

"Lovely hellhound, wherever did you get him?" asked Anya amiably.

Glory smiled, petting the dog affectionately.

"Oh, we summoned Brutus here right after I came back. I should never have begun with that snake. Reptiles are so- Stupid. But Brutus,"

she scratched the animal behind the ear, and he whined.

"He's a real team player. He's gonna sniff out my key for me."

"How do you know its even here? Or what it looks like?" Anya asked.

The goddess looked her over, as if she was deciding whether or not Anya might be good to eat. Finally she answered.

"I felt it's presence when I came back again."

Her eyes misted, and she a soft smile crossed her face as her voice lowered, becoming husky.

"It tingled…I knew it had to be close."

Her eyes hardened along with her voice.

"Then I was back in this damn body and I couldn't feel it any more. But I was in the room near your Slayergirl, and her baby sister. So I know it's near you guys. And Ben seems to think its in human form. So maybe it IS one of you guys. And very soon, I'm going to have it back."

Xander listened attentively to everything that was being said near him. He was putting things together, now. It was a good bet they were in whatever hospital Buffy had gone to to be with Spike. And any minute now, that hellhound would get wind of Dawn, and it would all be over.

His mind made up now, he aimed for the police officer shoes some two feet beyond him, and hurled. 

"Where's the nibblet?" Spike asked. The first thought he had was of Dawn. Even unconscious, his worry about her had gnawed at him. When he'd gone out that window, he'd wondered who would look after her without him around. 

He loved Buffy, but she could take care of herself. He was positively terrified for Dawn.

Angel reassured him with a warm laugh.

"She's gone home to Cordy's place for the night. I tried to get Buffy to go with her, but she refused to leave your side."

"Does Cordelia know about- I mean, is she prepared if"-

He intercepted the questions with a raised hand.

"She's safe there, Spike. I wouldn't have sent her otherwise."

Slowly Buffy stirred, raising her head. Spike greeted her with affectionate eyes.

"Hey, cutie."

She smiled at him, and the pure joy in that look made his heart leap.

"Hey yourself."

Angel spoke up.

"I'm going to go tell the nurses you're awake now. They wanted to be notified of any changes."

Spike nodded, and as his sire left, he turned back to Buffy. But she didn't look quite so joyful now.

In fact, if he had to put a name on it, he'd say that look was "highly ticked." The glare in her gaze was damn close to a glower.

"How do you feel?" she asked coolly.

He considered his choice of smart remarks, and opted instead to be pitiful. Pitiful might not get him in as much trouble.

"I hurt all over. Can I have some painkillers?"

She ignored him.

"I can't believe you did this. Coming out here without telling me. Lying to me about what you were doing here."

He tried to explain.

"Baby, I-"

"Don't you, 'Baby' me. You lied to me. You said it was a buying trip."

"Well, it was. Sort of. I did plan on hitting several dealers while in town."

She rolled her eyes at him.

He lost it.

"What was I supposed to do, Slayer? Tell you, 'Yeah, sorry, my Poofy Sire called, 'seems I have to go risk life and limb this weekend. Call you when I get back.'…I couldn't tell you that."

She regarded him levelly.

"At least it would have been the truth." She said.

He sighed. 

"I'm sorry. I should have told you what was going on."

She raised an eyebrow.

"And?"

He cocked his head to one side.

"And what?"

She tapped her fingertips on the metal bedrail as her eyes searched the ceiling. 

Hmm. She wanted him to say something. 

"I love you?" he offered tentatively.

She smiled back at him, warmly now.

"Love you too." 

Then she leaned over and kissed him.

A moment later, she pulled back.

"I promise I won't do it again." 

He'd promise anything if she'd kiss him again.

She tugged the blankets up over him and smiled indulgently.

"That's okay. You won't be able to."

He watched her cautiously, and asked,

"Er…Why not?"

Still smiling, she fluffed the pillow under his head.

"Because if Angel ever gets another harebrained idea like this one, I'm going to stake him."

The guards jumped back, but he managed to hit them anyway. His head ached horribly, and now his mouth was vile. The world shifted as his minion turned around to investigate the commotion. He could see the girls, now, standing ahead of the group. Which had now ceased walking and come to a complete stop.

The goddess turned around, and he saw her hips and legs. They were nice legs. He'd never seen them this close before.

"Eeew! Gross."

Something dug painfully into his scalp; he realized it was her nails. She lifted his head up, and the look on her face was not pleasant.

"You barfed on my guards, and my minion."

Then to the minion, she added,

"Drop him. He'll have to walk."

Pain in his legs when they hit the floor; his feet were asleep and tingly. But he got vertical and caught Anya's eye. She looked at him with concern.

Behind him he heard the angry guards, cursing. His distraction hadn't lasted long; soon they'd be on the move again. 

He tried stumbling, but the gun barrels pointed in his back kept him going. He had to get away, but a run likely wouldn't work. And where the hell were all the people? This was a hospital, where were all the orderlies and nurses, where were the doctors?

He thought about rotting flesh and Anya's cooking, he thought about three day binges and hangovers from hell. He thought about Buffy banging exDeadboy, Jr….

He leaned forward and got both of Glory's other minions in the next wave of nausea. Then he staggered, falling to his knees. The enormous dog loped over to lick the side of his face. 

"I thought I made myself clear. No More Sicking up on the Minions!" 

She slapped his face, and his vision garbled.

"Hey, Stop that! He's sick, you can't treat him that way!"

Anya struggled, and broke free of her guards, rushing up to him, shoving the dog out of the way to put her face against his. Her arms were bound at the back still, so she settled for kissing his cheek.

Xander pressed his lips to her ear.

"Don't let them reach the Dawnster." He breathed.

The irate Goddess wrenched them apart, but Xan saw understanding in Anya's eyes.

"We've got these two for hostages. Leave that one; I don't think he means much to the Slayer, anyway."

That bit stung, but his plan was working. He lay sprawled on the floor, and they stepped over him and continued onward. 

Seconds later, he was on his feet, and found out why no one was stopping them.

In the rooms, patients lay unmolested, but at the nurse's station he found three corpses, with small holes in their foreheads.They'd been shot where they worked. He turned away, and nearly stepped on a doctor's prone body, with a single bullet wound to the chest. 

He became grateful for his empty stomach as the dry heaves began. He took a deep breath, and wished he hadn't as the smell assailed him. Blood, fresh blood. It was appalling.

He gently moved one of the nurse bodies away from the computer terminal, and began looking for information. 

They had a hellhound. Xander had Microsoft. It was a race to see who'd get to Dawn first.


	48. Flight

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn 48

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn 48 "Flight"

AUTHOR: Nmissi 

PART: 48/50

DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,

what makes you think I'd share him with you? 

DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's

going. 

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com 

SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

Angel interrupted them suddenly, his urgency all too apparent.

"We have to get out of here, now."

He began tugging at Buffy's arm, even as Spike tried to sit up in the bed.

"What are you talking about?" she asked him. Then she noticed Spike yanking his IV lines out, and pulling off the monitor feeds.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Spike ignored her, his eyes seeking out his Sire.

"Is it bad?"

Angel nodded and Spike groaned. He slipped his legs, cast and all, down over the side of the bed.

"I'm numb all over, don't know how well I can stand up."

Fierce determination fixed his face; he grabbed Angel's wrist and caught his eyes again.

"Get her out of here. Keep her out of harm's way."

"Spike, I-"

"Just do it, Angel. For me, alright? You owe me this."

Angel nodded, and moved towards Buffy.

"Spike! Angel! What am I, invisible?"

She was annoyed and a little angry with them now. Looking back at her fiancée, she tried logic. It had never worked before, but 'Hey- there's a first time for everything' she told herself.

"You can't travel like that. Look, whatever it is, I'll go take care of it."

Her words were meant to reassure, but Spike didn't even look at her. She looked up at Angel again, and tried to question him about the danger. But he ignored her questions, his eyes still trained on Spike.

"She's pregnant, Angel. Don't let her fight." Spike stated bluntly.

"I'll keep her safe," Angel promised him.

Then he picked the girl up in his arms and made to carry her out. But Buffy was no delicate heroine, no damsel in distress. She took a good couple of whacks at him, and fought him every step. She was not leaving here without answers. And she was not leaving here without Spike.

Angel had his arms around her ribcage, just below her bustline, loosely dragging her towards the door. She couldn't prevent him carrying her, but she'd damn well do her best to prevent him hanging on. She squirmed and struggled, and finally threw her head back hard into Angel's jaw. It made a cracking noise and he let go, as Buffy slid to the floor and took up a defensive stance.

"That's enough of the he-man routine. In fact, I've had about enough of the pair of you to last me."

She pointed a finger at Angel.

"YOU. You make your plans and plot your stunts, and never tell me anything. It was bad enough when it was just me; But now you're pulling HIS strings and I won't have it. I will not be in that position again. He's not a puppet. He's not your puppy either, he doesn't have to come when you call him."

Then she turned her withering glance at her errant lover.

"Even if he hasn't figured that out yet. And YOU- Since when do you run this show, huh? Oh, I'm in a "delicate" condition, so you're gonna be all manly and "take charge"? You think you can make the rules for me now?Sorry Spike- I'm not that kind of girl.Never have been. Out here, get this straight: I'm the Top. You got that?"

Spike had the decency to blush slightly. Angel merely looked uncomfortable. Buffy resumed her Drill-sergeant routine. She looked Spike over calculatingly, then directed a question over to Angel.

"How many bones did they say he'd broken in those legs?"

"Sixteen." Came the response.

She touched Spike's arm gently, feeling along its length and flexing it at the elbow.

"and how many breaks in the arms?" 

Angel shrugged.   
"I don't remember. Enough I guess."

Her gaze sought Spike's, and she breathed a question.

"Do you trust me?"

His blue eyes were steadfast.

"Implicitly, love."

She brought her hands down hard, bladelike, onto the casts, first one, then the other. They cracked beneath the Slayer's strength, and she broke the pieces out with her fingers.

Spike winced under the blow, but the pain was receding already. She was feeling his leg now, along the bone, looking for the breaks.

"They set it fairly well, considering. But I think its mostly healed now. I can feel this one, and this one, but that's all. And they don't feel like breaks; more like, I don't know-"

"Yeah. I get that."

Spike stood gingerly, his hip smarting and his knee aching. But his weight held; he did not pitch forward, his feet were up to the task. 

Buffy slid an arm under his shoulder, helping to guide him.

"Don't just stand there Angel. Help me get him dressed."

As they shoved his limbs into the fresh clothes Buffy' d brought, Angel apprised them of the situation in the hallway.

"Security was dispatched two floors down. It was politely suggested to me that we stay in here and lock the door."  
Spike groaned.

"Eh, mate…How likely is it they've got a run-of-the-mill psycho down there? Or a drug bust type thing?"

Angel shook his head.   
"I don't think so. This is too…Convenient."

He didn't tell them there were bodies already, that the police were cordoning off the building. They'd know soon enough, and he didn't feel like going into the details.

Carefully, they moved out of the room, and into the hall, towards the emergency stairwells. 

Xander had never been particularly good with computers. Anya was, Willow was. But Xander knew just about enough to open up aol and send an email. That was all. 

So hunting for patient records was a bitch and a half. And he didn't know Spike's name, didn't know where he might be, so he was hoping to locate "visitor" records. Yet not every visitor was required to sign in, it all depended upon which hospital entrance you came in by, and what time you did it. 

It was pure luck he should find the drug release forms for "Walthrop, William." But there they were, lying neatly in a stack alongside one of the computer terminals. A quick perusal convinced him that this was his old enemy; his chart notes were full of handwritten comments about his amazing healing factor, and the speed of his recovery. The release forms were for high dose sedatives and painkillers; apparently the usual stuff wasn't even having an effect on him.

"It's just like when Buffy gets hurt," he said quietly, under his breath.

The chart notes provided a room number, and the computer provided a nice schematic. He had a good idea where he was going, now.

He started for the elevators, then turned back around. The pharmaceuticals were on this level; might there be something useful in there? Something to use as a weapon?

He wound his way to the drug room and encountered a little problem: passkeys. Apparently only certain folk had access to these medications. Disheartened, he turned around, and noticed…

The janitor's closet. It was half-opened, a yellow mop-bucket holding the door in place.

Solvents. He could use solvents for accelerant, if the opportunity arose.

He rushed in, and made his selections. Bleach. Ammonia. Polyurethane stain. Spray cleaners and aerosol air freshener. 

He loaded up, using a fresh pillowcase for a sack. 

Poking his head around the corner, he saw more police officers. He did not see Glory, but that didn't mean anything. She had cops in her employ; he knew that. These guys could belong to her as well.

He ducked back into the closet and waited until they worked their way past him. Then he headed out, sticking close to the walls, trying to meld into the shadows. 

His head ached unmercifully, but he went on undaunted. He had places to go, gods to profane.

Willow sat heavily upon the bed, watching as the hellhound bayed at an empty chair.

"I don't understand," remarked Anya to her guards. She was standing uncomfortably to one side of the door, watching Glory get angrier. "I thought the hellhound was supposed to be able to smell it. The key, I mean. Is it…Is it the chair?"

Glory wheeled about.

"No, Silly! It's not a piece of furniture." 

She patted Brutus' head affectionately. 

"Good Boy. Maybe I'll give you a treat."   
She eyed Willow slowly.

"Yeah, just as soon as we don't need her anymore, you can eat the witch."

The hellhound trained intelligent eyes on Willow, and trotted over to the bed. It sniffed her knees, and its perusal was discomfiting. It was as if it were tasting her already.

Glory straightened up.

"I think the girl was telling me the truth. I think she's the key. Somehow or other, she lived through the whole tacky little suicide routine. I mean, I know its not the Slayer. I know its not her little boyfriend. It's not either of you,"

She said this with an ounce of disgust, then went on.

"And it wasn't the pretty girl either."

She licked her lips unpleasantly.

"Although she was good. Very good…"

Her words trailed off as she remembered the joy of sinking her hands into that one. All the love and concern, all the gentle warmth of the girl, had flowed into her at that moment. She was happiness personified. 

They always tasted better when they were happy. The element of surprise had let her avoid the taste of fear on the girl. When she'd crept upon them, neither witch had been prepared for her.

Fear had its own spice, but sometimes joy had a nice flavor.

Anya jumped in awkwardly.

"You mean Dawn? Oh, no. I don't think she's your key. For one thing, she's just a snotty fifteen year old."

Anya snorted disbelievingly. 

"You really think an ancient and powerful being would reside inside a pimply teenager?"

But Glory was moving them out, now, back into the hallway. The guns at their backs kept the girls moving forward. But alarms were going off now, and a police bullhorn sounded on the floors below.

"Come out with your hands up."

Glory rolled her eyes.   
"This is just Not My Day," she lamented.

Going down was impossible; all the doors into the hospital were locked from the inside. It made sense, for security reasons, and Spike felt like smacking himself for not realizing it earlier. 

He hobbled, but kept pace with Buffy and Angel. They moved up the stairwell, towards the rooftop.

It was not quite dusk yet, but they'd deal with that problem when it arose. Should they run into real trouble, there was a decent chance they'd never get to the rooftop anyway.

Was it Wolfram and Hart? That Glory bird? 

Or some new evil to confound them? Hey, he hadn't seen the SCA rejects since Sunnydale; they were overdue for their next run-in.

They came out not on the roof, as they'd expected, but in an empty half-level of the hospital used mainly for storage.

"How do we get to the roof from here?" Buffy groused.

Suddenly the trio heard a noise in the stairwell behind them, and turned around. Spike fell into place alongside Buffy; Angel stepped in front of both of them.

"Oh. Its you," he said, as a winded Xander Harris stepped onto the landing.

"Yeah. Me." He puffed. "Glory's here. Along with some demons, and about a squad of policemen. They're shooting people, they've killed-"

He broke off, despairing as he realized he'd lost count of the bodies when he'd pursued the gang into the staircase.

"Lots of people are dead. But Buffy,"

He licked his lips and tried to look away from her probing gaze.

"they've got the girls. They've got Anya and Willow."


	49. Fight

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn 49 "Fight"

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn 49 "Fight"

AUTHOR: Nmissi 

PART: 49/50

DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,

what makes you think I'd share him with you? 

DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's

going. 

Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com 

SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

"All right. How many more have you got?"

Spike was rolling homemade bombs, from Xander's chemical stash. Beside him, Buffy added fuses. Angel was trying to get his shoulder back in the socket; he'd forced their way in on the second floor. 

"Here. Just two bottles. And we're all out of ammonia, now."

That was okay, though, thought Spike. They had a decent number of small "grenades" to throw. They wouldn't cause much in the way of explosion, but the smell they'd leave should be god-awful, and the smoke positively blinding.

Angel sighed and wished for a better weapon. All he had on him right now was Spike's handgun, liberated from his stolen clothing on the way to the hospital the other day. That and a half empty box of ammo seemed like a pitiful arsenal with which to take on a goddess.

He had no idea how he was expected to get the girls out of this.

"Here. I'm out of rags now." Said Buffy.

He watched them covertly, his ex girlfriend and his childe. They worked in tandem, with a natural ease born of experience. They were partners, these two, in ways he and Buffy had never been. 

He realized with some surprise that it didn't hurt anymore to acknowledge that. 

Buffy straightened up, and went to the door of the room they were using to base their operations. She peered out carefully into the hall.

"Too quiet out there," she commented.

Angel strode over beside Spike.

"I'm sorry I brought you into this mess," he apologized.

He meant he was sorry for dragging him here to L.A., for getting him into the fix with Wolfram and Hart. But moreover, he was sorry he'd let it all begin, back in 1880. He was sorry for the mortal lives he'd stolen, sorry for the blackness he'd brought into what had been an innocent life.

Spike rolled his eyes at him.

"Come off it, you wanker. Do I look like I'm holding a grudge, here?"

His words were harsh, but his gaze was loving. Angel spoke softly to him.

"I guess its just that I feel bad for getting you beat up, Spike. I mean, you went through all that hell, and we didn't even learn anything. We still don't know what the prophecy refers to. I wasted your time, and nearly got you killed for nothing."

Spike sputtered.

"Angel, I DID get the prophecy. Shit." 

He gestured wildly with his hands.

"With everything that's been going on, I haven't really had an opportunity to tell you."

Angel stood stock still. 

"Well? I'm waiting, William."

He didn't sound too pleased, and Spike castigated himself mentally. Yeah, perhaps it might have been a good idea to bring this up sometime before now.

"Angel, they were holding Dru in that building. She's their prophet."

He gave a disgusted snort.

"Guess they figured out that if you keep her hungry and frightened, she'll have all the visions you can ask for. They'd gone and made a regular Pythia out of her."

Angel nodded. He knew lots of ugly ways to induce Dru's power. And he shouldn't be surprised that the lawyers would stoop to such tactics. But somehow it made him angry anyway; that someone should abuse his children. 

Angelus always preferred to do that sort of thing himself. 

"But what IS her prophecy then, Spike? And how did you get away from her then?"

Spike shook his head.

"I'll explain the escape later. But she's out now, I freed her."

He smiled grimly.

"I hope she ate a goodly number of the staff on her way," he added.

Then he started explaining.

"There is no hard copy of the millennium prophecy, Angel. They didn't want it committed to record, I suppose. And its not someeasily repeatable bit of poetic nonsense such as she likes so well. Leastways, not that I gathered."

"Spike, Spit it out." Angel was getting testy.

"I am, Angel. I'm getting there."

Buffy walked back over to them.

"No one's in the hall, but there are police lining the front of the building."

Xander looked up.

"I just wonder if they're real cops, or if they're her cops," he speculated. 

She shrugged. 

Spike looked away from their interaction, back to his sire. He began anew.

"Anyway…I think the prophecy has to do with the timing of this whole thing. Millenium just means it happens to coincide with the new millennium. But its really about you, and the Wondertwins, and maybe even Dru, and me. Maybe even Darla."

Angel nodded. When would he get to the Fucking Point?

"Go on."

Spike took a deep breath.   
"She told me that Immortal Souls infect Immortal flesh, and we are hated in the eyes of our kine. Humanity creeps into the bloodline. We are cursed."

"That would refer to the creation of Lindsay, and Lilah. Go on."

He shook his head.

"It refers to more than just them, Angel. Think about it. ' Humanity creeps into the bloodline'- that's me, and maybe you, later, if the whole Shanshu gig is still on. But maybe it means them too- All the rest of our line. Drusilla was not like herself, Angel. She was, I don't know- Not innocent. You know what I mean. She was more Lucid, and more disturbed. She cried on me, told me she didn't want an immortal soul."

He looked Angel straight in the eye.

"I think the prophecy means souls all 'round, one to a customer for the line of Aurelius."

Angel took a minute to examine the theory. It made some sort of sense. It would explain the strangeness of Harmony, the odd humanity of the reborn Darla. She'd been different this time. 

If Spike was right, it meant he was not alone, not unique. It wasn't just his curse, it was his fate- to be the father of a line of more human demons.

And the idea crept in, that that there was divine providence behind this. After all, Evil had been corrupting the agents of Good for eternity… Could the Forces of Good corrupt the agents of Darkness?

He could see why an old and respected group of Demonic Families would want to quash this sort of change, why they would work so hard to defeat it, and then, failing that, to contain all knowledge of it.

And he was entitled to a seat at that table, he reflected. He had a seat on the board of directors of Hell, if he chose to claim it.

That was why they worked overtime to take him out of the picture. The way Lilah explained it, They operated by their own rules at the firm- But they abided by them as well. If he showed up, they'd have to accept him. Oh, they might try to assassinate him. But they'd let him vote first.

It was rich. Maybe God was infiltrating the opposition. 

They stoppedon the ground floor, in front of a long line of armed police officers demanding they lie down and put their hands behind their backs, that the armed guards drop their weapons.

But Glory'd had enough of this nonsense. Her time was nearly up; soon the key would lock into its new state; immalleable. She gave the order and her men fired upon the officers. A number fell, and She moved into the throng, breaking necks and draining heads.

She'd never felt this good before, not since being confined in this wretched mortal prison.

Willow and Anya hunkered down behind the receptionist's desk, forgotton for the moment. Anya worked frantically at the knot around the witch's neck. She'd known the rope for what it was the minute she'd seen it; a binding cord. It was intended to restrain the witches gifts, to make her cooperative and manageable. It must be a very powerful item, she thought, taking in Willow's zombielike state.

But she didn't know the words of unbinding, not anymore. It was too long, and she was too powerless. There was a time she'd have dropped the thing off Willow without having to so much as look at it, but that time was gone. She was human now, a poor human girl with a human boyfriend and very ordinary human hopes and fears.

She feared for her friend. And it pleased her that she could call the witch that. It had been a long time coming, this trust between them. 

She had to get her free, somehow.

Spike, Xander, and Angel crept silently down the stairwell, deeper into the hospital. Xander said there was a freight elevator that went from the basement to the ground floor. Angel thought it was their best bet for an unimpeded progress.

Behind them, Buffy crept carefully. She was ready to fight, wanting to fight. But she was feeling the fear again, the cool certainty that the situation she was heading into was Not Good For The Baby. 

She passed a hand unconsciously over her middle, and said a silent prayer for the tiny sleeping life inside her, that it not be harmed in the coming battle.

They spilled out into the basement, and crept towards the mortuary. Beyond it, some fifty feet from the door, was the freight elevator.

Angel punched "L", and the doors slid open. 

He stepped back as men in chainmail with broadswords moved into view.

Spike shoved Buffy behind him.

"Hide," he hissed. But she ignored him. These guys were human, and she'd fought them before. 

She could take them. 

Willow felt her mind clear, as the rope fell from around her neck. Beside her, Anya held a pair of nail scissors triumphantly.

"Who knew you could just cut it off?" she asked.

But now memory returned to the witch. She remembered waking to the feel of hands on her throat, a sick fear that she was being smothered. Then the fog began; she could remember bits of what had happened, but not very clearly.

Police officers. Glory. Doctors shot in the head at point-blank range. 

She gagged at the images in her head.

Tara. Where was Tara? 

Then she remembered, and her hands began to shake. Tara, seized sleeping just as she was. But instead of binding her, the goddess had plunged fingers into her beautiful head, on either side of her lovely face. The light had been blinding, but Willow had been too dazed to close her eyes to it. She'd seen the look on Glory's face as she drained Tara's mind, a look of nearly orgasmic pleasure.

And afterwards, when Tara had slumped away babbling, the look of satiety in the bitch's face.

Willow's heart hardened. She wanted the evil thing Dead. Not banished, not restrained… But painfully, horribly dead.

She vowed to see her suffer.

Buffy had two of the knights, and Angel and Spike were surrounded by a group of them, dodging downstrokes and feints. Xander, already bleeding from two small wounds in his arm and shoulder, produced a bottle of air freshener and sprayed it into the face of his attacker, moving towards the throng around the other men. 

Inside the circle, Spike got in several good kicks at knees, causing two of the knights to falter. As they stumbled, he kicked their heads and stepped on them. The line, he had to break the line. The knights stood between their group and the elevator door. 

Buffy slammed one man into the wall, hard enough to crumble the plaster. The other one charged her, but she stepped out of his reach and watched as he lodged his weapon into the wallboard. It stuck, and his attempts to free it gave her the time she needed to knock him out. 

As he slid to the floor, she pulled his sword free. It felt better to have a weapon in her hand. She noted the fine weight of it, the excellent balance. It had a cross emblazoned in the handle, and as she ran back to the fighting she heard Angel's hiss.

"Buffy! Get that thing away from me! It's blessed."

She moved away, cutting at their opponents. It was messy work, and she'd been told correctly. These knights did not stop. They did not fall back. They just kept on advancing as she cut them down. One fell, and another took his place. And another. And another.

Spike stood in the doorway of the elevator now, bleeding from his lip and nose. He held one of the swords as well; glistening red tinged the glint of its steel length.

"Come ON! We haven't got all bleedin' day, you know!"

He was keyed up and turned on from the fighting, shifting on the balls of his feet. One of the knights came at him, sword raised, charging into the elevator. Spike spitted him on the blade, and kicked his body out the doorway.

Angel's knuckles were bruised and bloody, his game face on. He just kept grabbing heads and slamming them together. He noticed Spike's brutality as he ran into the elevator.

"Why do you hate them so much?" he asked, as he kicked the legs out from beneath one coming at them.

"They tried to nab little bit at Revco last week. It was a slaughter."

Since they didn't value human lives, Spike didn't feel particularly obligated to value theirs. Whereas Buffy and Angel had been actively trying to disarm without fatalities, Spike was intent on skewering every knight in his way.  
Buffy seized Xander up from where he'd fallen. He was stabbed through the shoulder, and bleeding profusely.

"Come on. We're out of here."

She ran for the elevator, and pulled him in after her.

The door closed on the scene of their carnage, and they went up to face the real challenge.

Willow needed materials, she needed time. But the gunshots whizzed over her head occasionally, and she knew the bitchgoddess was out there, doing her thing. Periodically she heard the crack of a broken neck and knew someone else had died. 

It had to stop.

The elevator door dinged, and something whizzed through the air, landing off to their left with a bang.

Smoke and stink filled the air. Anya choked and tried to see over the desktop.

Spike and Angel emerged amid the cloud, bloody and terrifying. Spike was armed with a long sword, which he ran through a chanting demon minion. Beside him, Angel picked one up and broke his spine.

Behind them, Buffy came out.

"Xander!" shouted Anya.

She got to her feet and tried to run to them, but lost them in the smoke.

Suddenly she felt her feet give way, and she fell to the floor. She'd slipped in blood, near one of the downed minions. But down here she could see better. She could make out feet, not two feet away.

And she'd know those nikes anywhere. She crept towards her loved ones.

Behind the desk, Willow grew gradually more frightened. She wasn't safe here. The bitch might come back, and she already knew she was excellent in the role of the hostage. 

So she took a chance, and darted the direction of her friends.

Spike looked over in time to see the witch running straight at him, in terror.Behind her, a man raised his gun and aimed.

"Red! Drop!" he cried.

Amazingly enough, she did, and he felt the bullet meant for her imbed itself in the firm flesh of his upper arm.

He dropped the sword, unable to maintain its weight. It skittered forward, clattering to a stop just in front of Willow.

Red heels came into view, as the girl looked up. It was her, it was the goddess. Willow felt around for the sword; she knew it was there, just above her head….

Her hands connected as the bitch grabbed her by the hair, pulling her upwards.

"Not leaving so soon?" she crooned apologetically. She raised her other hand and slapped Willow across the cheek, hard.

With both hands behind her head, Willow brought the sword up in an arc, with all the force she could muster. But she didn't know how to hold it. Instead of plunging into the woman's midsection, it continued its cutting stroke, pulled down by gravity.

It was with no small sense of satisfaction that Willow took in the sight of the blood spraying. 

Warm, wet blood, dripping onto her face, showering her like rain.

The goddess staggered back, and Willow saw that her aim had been true after all, true and horribly appropriate. Her arms were severed midway to the wrist, both of them. The blood sprayed out, and she screamed in agony.

Willow spied the hands, white and harmless now. She picked them up, and stuffed them furtively into her dress pockets. Then she crawled backwards, as another round of explosives shook the room.

She felt strong arms hauling her upward, and looked gratefully into the face of a vampire.

"You okay?" Angel asked.

She nodded. Behind him, she saw Buffy dragging Xander, and Anya trying to help. Spike was suddenly at her back.

"We ready to get out of here then?"

Angel nodded, and they moved away from the front of the building, heading towards the parking garage. 

Dead cops littered the path. Angel ignored them, moving them out of the way like cordwood. 

They spied one poor man hiding behind a coke machine, his service revolver clutched in a shaking pair of hands.   
Angel took the weapon gently out of the officer's hands, his face reverting to normal. 

"Call for backup. Now."

For some reason the man scurried to do his bidding, moving on his belly towards the phones.

Angel moved his group farther into the parking garage.

He slowed for a minute, and Buffy looked up at him worriedly.

"What? What is it? Do you hear something?"

He shook his head.

"No. I just don't remember where I parked the surveillance van." 


	50. Ever After

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #50/50 "Ever After"

TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn #50/50 "Ever After"

AUTHOR: Nmissi  
PART: 50/50

RATING: R (For Series)  
DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,   
what makes you think I'd share him with you?  
DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just credit me and let me know where it's   
going.  
Feedback: Please. Nmissi@aol.com  
SUMMARY: The way the world would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.

"I look stupid," the girl moaned, flopping into an overstuffed chair. Beside her, Anya worked on Willow's hair, ornately braiding it into a crown.

"You don't look stupid, Dawn. You look like a Maid of Honor," she chastised.

Dawn rolled her eyes, and opened the little pink purse that matched her froofy pink dress. She pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and lit one.

"Dawn! What are you doing, where did you get those?" 

Willow's outrage caused her to jerk her head, and Anya shoved her back in the chair with equal force.

"Quit moving or I won't be able to do this," she said.

Dawn breathed out minty smoke and gave Willow a shrug.

"I bought them. I'm sixteen now, it's legal."

"You might be legal, but Dawn…You know Buffy wouldn't like it." Willow was trying to understand, but it was difficult. 

"Dawn's just acting out. Right Dawn? You're venting your displeasure with the changes in you life by smoking, drinking, running around with boys, right?"

Anya smiled helpfully at the teenager.

"I do watch television you know. This sort of thing is very normal. Only be careful…I've noticed that girls who don't grow out of this phase tend to wind up in trailer parks. With five kids. 

And food stamps," she added.

Willow winced, but whether it was Anya's firm grip or her biting honesty that caused it was anyone's guess.

Dawn stubbed her ciggie out in an ashtray.

"Don't worry. I'll probably grow out of it."

As she stood up, black Doc Martens peeked out from under the hem of her gown.

In another dressing room, Spike pulled at his collar and growled at the groomsman.

"I should never have agreed to this. Who ever heard of someone like me gettin' married in a sodding church? Who ever heard of someone like me gettin' married?"

Xander fixed Spike's tie for the tenth time that morning.

"Whoever heard of anybody like you in the first place, Spike?"

"Yeah, well… This better be my last bloody wedding. Next time I'm in a building like this, it'll be for my funeral." He insisted.

Xander ignored him. Instead he did a mental catalogue. Rings, Check. Car keys. Check. Speech for the reception. Check. Money to pay the DJ. Check…

He was good to go.

Giles entered the room, and gave Xander a look. 

"I think I'll go see if the organist's here yet," he commented. He didn't meet the groom's eyes, just ducked out of the room.

Spike raised an eyebrow at Giles.

"So. You here to off me now, watcher?"

The older man cringed a little at that, but only for a second. Then he pulled his shoulders back, and held his head high.

"No, Spike. I'm not here to kill you."

His voice was resigned; weary. 

"I only wish to speak with you for a minute."

Languidly the groom draped himself over a chair. He fumbled in his pockets for a moment, and pulled out a small package of gum. Popping one in his mouth, he gestured at Giles.

"Go on then. Get it over with. Tear into me at will. 'You're a waste of space, Spike. You're not good enough for my girl, Spike. Why don't you go play in traffic, Spike.' Go on. I'm anxious to hear if you've any newer material."

Giles pushed his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose. His pride smarted. But he could do this; he would do this for Buffy.

"Can we please dispense with this attitude? There's no love lost between us, I know that. But I'm here to make peace with you, Spike. For the sake of my girls, I want to-"

"You want to What, Rupert? Bury the hatchet? I think you buried it in my back already, when you sicced the INS on me."

"Yes, well. I'm- Sorry about that."

"And you tried to buy me off. Any idea how insulting that was, mate?"

He sniggered.

"As if I'd take money to leave them. What arrogance."

Giles bit his tongue, hard. He knew Spike wouldn't make any of this easy for him.

"Spike, look. I'm not going to stand here and listen to an index of my sins. I came here to make an honest apology. I love Buffy, I love Dawn…I thought you werean unhealthy influence on them. It has become apparent that I may have been incorrect in that assumption. But I will not stand idly by and be berated-"

Suddenly Spike laughed, a full-throated hearty exclamation of amusement. Giles looked on in horror, wondering if he'd finally gone mad.

Spike rose, and clapped Giles on the back.

"Oh, you should see your face, Rupert. S'brilliant, simply brill."

He got hold of himself, chuckling mildly now. Tears were in his eyes, and laugh lines around his mouth.

"It's okay, mate. No big deal. I understand."

His eyes lit with a warm glow.

"Do you think I'd behave any differently than you? Some drunken demonic snot sniffing around MY daughter?"

He snorted.

"I think you were rather reserved, considering."

He softened his voice, and tried to impress upon the other man his earnestness.

"But seriously, Giles. I love her. I love them both. And I want you to know, I'll do everything in my power to keep them both happy, and safe. I want to take care of them, all three of them, Buffy, Dawn, the baby…"  
There was wistfulness in his tones, as he went on.

"I haven't been part of a family in a long while. But I want to do right by them. I will do right by them. You have my word."

Giles patted Spike's shoulder awkwardly, and noticed that his eyes were watering.

It must be the humidity, he reflected.

"Well now. Er… Um… Perhaps we should see about getting you married then."

Buffy had escaped the chaos of the dressing rooms, to lurk here in the rose garden outside the church. Carefully, she picked her way through the paths, minding her dress and her shoes.

Mom had always liked roses, she mused, as she plucked one. 

The thorn bit into her skin, beading blood on the surface. She gazed into the droplet, thinking about her life.

There was a time she never thought she'd see a day like this one. 

She remembered the aftermath of that first spell, when Willow had willed them married. She recalled disappointment and despair.

Not because she loved Spike, because when the spell wore off, she hadn't. But the terrible loss of that dream of hope, it had affected her for months to come. It had propelled her into a disastrous relationship with Riley. To go from such pure joy and hopefulness, back to loneliness and desolation proved too much for her. 

She'd had everything, for that one day. A man she adored, who adored her, and a beautiful future ahead of them.

Only when she recovered from the magic did she realize the future was a lie, a thing she'd never have.

Until these last months she'd honestly thought such a day would never come. There would be no marriage, no children….No future for her outside from her impending end, destined to come in the heat of battle.

But hope was alive with in her now, she was allowing herself to dream and to plan. She was the Slayer, yes, but she was so much more than that. She was a sister, a daughter, and a friend. Soon she would be a wife, and a mother.

Perhaps what let her forebears give in so easily was the absence of those ties. Spike had tried to tell her as much, once before. She was unlike any Slayer who had gone before her. Her fate need not mirror theirs. 

Together, she and Spike would create their fate, they would map a future unlike any who had gone before them.

The blood on her finger had crusted, and she swiped at it with a fingernail, revealing healed, healthy skin beneath. 

She said a prayer to God, thanking him for the gifts in her life. There were so many; Dawn. Spike. All of her loved ones. 

And the baby. The baby was the greatest gift of all. 

She only wished her mother could be alive to see this day.

Yet she felt her presence all around her. Within her, and surrounding her, giving her strength and comfort.

"Buffy?"

She looked over to see Giles standing at the edge of the rosebushes.

"Buffy, they're waiting for you."

She gave him a radiant smile.

"Then let's go," she said.

"The wedding was just lovely, Tara."Willow soaped the blonde hair gently, as she smoothed the tangles. " Buffy's dress was perfect. All flowy and filmy…not even a hint of lil baby belly peeking through."

Tenderly she rinsed the shampoo out, and then rested Tara's head against her. The bathwater came nearly to her chin, lying against Willow's breast. 

Willow leaned over and pressed a kiss against her love's forehead. 

Looking into the empty, doll-like eyes, she went on.

"They're going to England until the baby comes. Spike has a house there; they're going to get Dawn a tutor and live there for awhile. We're supposed to head over in March, if I can work things out. Buffy wants me to be there when the baby is born."

Willow wrapped strong arms around Tara's inert form. When the girl began mumbling, Willow pressed a kiss to the side of her face.

"I've almost got the ritual worked out now, honey. It won't be much longer."

On the side of the tub, a hand of glory perched in a silver dish, with a beeswax candle burning in its palm.

"You've seenpatient 1012, our Jane Doe from last month's terrorist attack at the hospital." The doctor stated.

His young assistant nodded.

"Why such large doses of Thorazine, sir?" he asked.

The older man smiled at him indulgently. He'd been much the same as this idealistic youngster once himself. He'd thought he could reason with the world's madmen. It was why he'd gone into medicine to begin with.

Time and experience had made him a wiser man.

"She tries to hurt herself, otherwise. She's given to delusions of grandeur; she thinks she's God."

The young man swallowed uncomfortably.

"It's a shame, sir. One so pretty as that."

His mentor nodded.

"Yes. We have to keep her sedated, for her own safety. Sometimes she screams for her brother, other times she beats the nurses with the stumps of her arms."

"Stumps?" the young one questioned.

Again, the nod.

"Yes. She lost both her hands in the attack. When she's most agitated, she slaps other people with the stumps. Repeatedly. She'll do it until the wounds tear back open."

He sighed.

"She's had her stitches done multiple times, but she always tears them before the healing is complete."

He shuddered.

"I've never seen psychosis so pronounced, in response to a trauma. She's so deranged she doesn't even know her own name."

"It's gorgeous, Spike. You- You own this?" she asked.

He grinned at her.

"No, love. We do. Come inside."

Buffy moved out of the front gardens, and into the house. It was a magnificent structure, three stories high, built solidly of stone and cedar. All around it were spring roses, and hedgerows. 

Inside, he moved about like a little kid, sweeping dustcovers off of furniture. His bride watched bemusedly, as he uncovered each chair, each table, like a Christmas present.

"I can't believe its all here." He breathed.

"What's all here?" she asked.

He gave her a brilliant smile.

"The furnishings, love. This house has been sold numerous times, before I got it back. I had no idea so many of our things would still be here!"

Her brow furrowed. 

"You grew up here?" she asked.

He nodded, and tugged her hand, dragging her up the stairs.

He paused on the second floor, and opened the door on the nursery.

It didn't look quite the same, but the layout was unaltered. A large room, in an L shape, with cupola windows that had toy boxes set in their seats. Overhanging eaves on one side made the ceiling clearance lower; he remembered playing with a train kept set up in that corner.

This room held many happy memories for him.

He pulled her inside.

"This was our room. The boys, I mean. Mine and Stephen's," he amended.  
He looked around, eyes misting in remembrance.

She touched his arm gently.

"I think it'll make a perfect baby nursery," she said.

He pulled her close to him, sharing her warmth. The child between them had just begun to round her belly; its firmness pressed against him, and he caressed her with his hand.

"Do you think you can be happy here, Buffy?" he asked, in all seriousness.

She leaned in close, to lay her head on his chest. His heart hammered against her cheek.

"Yes. I think we can." 


End file.
